


He, Who Defies the Kings

by Athenova



Series: Beyond the Aegean [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst with a Happy Ending, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Balkan OCs, Blood and Violence, Crete OC, Croatia and Austria I'm sorry sweeties, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, England is a dick in the end, Friends to Lovers, Greek Civil War, Historical Hetalia, Historical Inaccuracy, Holocaust, Implied Sexual Content, It's my Greece portrayal and I get to decide how much of a dick he can get, Many characters are girls because I said so, Mild Gore, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Relationship(s), Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Revolution, Seriously triggering stuff, Sharing a Bed, The Author Regrets Everything, Tragedy, World War II, its for the plot i swear, just a heads up, no beta we die like men, tw: genocide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:09:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27622532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athenova/pseuds/Athenova
Summary: When all of Europe decided to throw itself in a savage whirlwind of war, Heracles found himself unable to resist throwing himself in. He'd fight for all he believed in, even if it defied the straw-haired Northern man's wishes. His people would be safe from invasions, all of them. None of his children will be taken from his hands, he swore upon an image of Mary.But he found himself in a grand and noble estate in Austria, subservient to the owner of the estate like a slave. In the cold, hostile mansion, Heracles reunites with an old friend, and perhaps an old love.Heracles and Miroslav decide to escape the estate together and join their people's resistance, bent on assisting their allies onto winning a seemingly hopeless war.
Relationships: Bulgaria/Romania (Hetalia), Female Austria/Hungary (Hetalia), Germany/Female North Italy (Hetalia), Greece/Serbia (Hetalia)
Series: Beyond the Aegean [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1944514
Comments: 14
Kudos: 20





	1. 00 ---- Beč

**Author's Note:**

> Hello ~  
> I know Basileuousa is still ongoing, but I couldn't resist writing this. It's a tad shorter than my normal chapters but I hope it'll do for now!!
> 
> This fic will be much darker in terms of atmosphere. There will be tons of blood, violence, assault and abuse, and generally very triggering stuff. I will put a trigger warning in the beginning of each chapter, but I wanted to make this clear by now.
> 
> Also:  
> Alice = North Italy / Italy Veneziano  
> Miroslav = Serbia  
> Radomir = Montenegro

_Vienna, Austria_

_27 April 1941_

* * *

  
  
  


The city of Vienna, a grand, aristocratic city, even by 1941 standards. Home to fine architecture, classical music, known as the pride and joy of Austria.

The streets of Vienna, bustling with people hasting to their jobs, their schools or respective activities. The faces of the people revealed nothing but worry about making it in time; punctuality was a virtue for Austria, and even more for Austrian bosses.  
  


It was as if the city of Vienna had rendered itself immune to the fact that a savage war was ravaging not just Europe, but the entire world. A sanctuary to the horrors that roamed outside.

Vienna did not house only grand buildings and large corporations. It also held a most strange being’s residence. A personification.  
Austria’s personification, to be exact.   
Lady Sofia Edelstein, the cousin to Ludwig and Gilbert Beilschmidt.

A skilled musician, an even more talented cook, and a strong-willed woman, afraid of nothing. Her beauty was pursued after by many, but no one could conquer her, nor her sharp mind and equally sharp tongue.

Sofia, a motherly figure to all Austrians, merely wished for her people’s contentment and prosperity. With this wish, she accepted her cousins’ decision to annex her. She believed her people would be safer that way.

And here she was, 3 years later, working in full speed amidst a harsh war, leading unfortunate nations in her grand estate. These nations would serve her, do all she asked of them, report to her only, with the lingering fear of her whip and direct connection to **_him_ **.

In such a situation, one can simply bow his head and submit. Especially if one is a personification. And an especially pained one, to add up.   
It was no different for Miroslav Nikolic, and his older brother, Radomir, two personifications within Yugoslavia.  
  
  


Just a couple of decades ago, the brothers were feared across the Balkans for their ferocity in battle. They were plunged into war, twice in two years, and they came victorious twice. 

Miroslav’s recklessness was notorious for getting him involved into affairs that had nothing to do with him. It also got him into starting a war that sent Europe into a crawling chaos for years to come.  
  


Now, a captive of the Axis, he had fallen to their relentless assaults after 3 days, a statistic that haunted him. He, a powerful warlord, was reduced to scrubbing Sofia’s floors clean, with the constant threat of punishment hung over his neck like a noose. Aching body, even if he weren’t punished. Miroslav awoke at the mornings with pain searing through his body like wildfire, and clothes soaked in blood.  
  


His people were dying. All over Europe, his people were being kidnapped, tortured, killed for just being Serbs. And he, an incompetent, sad fool he was, could not muster to even raise his head up and face the tyrant holding him and his family hostage.  
  


Or could he? He just needed his people to co-operate with him. He’d think this overnight, this was not a simple task to perform, especially under circumstances such as these-

  
  


A voice tore through the air, ripping Miroslav from his thoughts.

It was a masculine voice, commanding and powerful, with a distinct accent, a tone of triumph coloring it, as if the voice belonged to a mighty conqueror.

“Guten morgen, _Fraulein_ Sofia!”

Miroslav rose his head from the floor he was scrubbing, for his gaze to meet with Dimitar’s. Dressed in his khaki military overcoat, tied with a red belt and sewn with the national emblem, the Bulgarian looked as if he had gone through a battle, a victorious one for him.  
  


He stood tall, green eyes beaming with a prideful, nigh arrogant glint.  
Miroslav clenched his teeth and scrubbed the floor harder, childishly imagining the floor was Dimitar’s face.  
  


That goddamn traitor. He surrendered to the Axis, joined them and easily turnt his back on everything the Balkan League had sworn back in 1912.

  
Not like Dimitar hadn’t given up on these already. Miroslav wanted to believe that Dimitar was simply misled, misinformed, or just made bad decisions in the heat of the moment. But now, he was completely convinced.

  
Dimitar was conscious and aware of his actions this time. Miroslav didn’t care what circumstances he was under -- he didn’t even know them, to begin with --, all he knew was that Dimitar didn’t only work with the Axis, he was a part of them.

* * *

Sofia had let the prideful Bulgarian inside, leading him in her living room. It was as luxurious as one could imagine. As it seemed, Sofia’s taste for expensive and rich looking things hadn’t faded away with the dissolution of her marriage.  
  


Miroslav was commanded to remain in the living room, to dust some shelves. As he was perhaps the tallest in the estate, Miroslav accepted the chore unceremoniously.

Not as if he could refuse it, to begin with.

Miroslav kept a watchful eye, and an equally sharp ear, to catch on the heated conversation between Dimitar and Sofia. Perhaps he could use any information that slipped their tongues, for his own means. 

A location, a name, even a mere mention of a weapon could be useful.   
He had to rely on anything given to him, in order to save his people. _Anything_.

  
But so far, the conversation boiled down to political arguments Dimitar had with Ludwig. As if it was of any concern to Sofia. Dimitar was aware that he, and she alike, were terrified of the German. The fact that Dimitar had the guts to talk politics with Ludwig said a lot.  
  
  


As Miroslav’s tedious chore of dusting slowly came to a close, which also meant his commanded departure from the room, his ears caught a rather interesting conversation. As it seemed, the subject had switched.

  
Drawing closer to the shelf, pretending it was still dusty (easily taking advantage of Sofia’s neat freak), Miroslav stretched his ears, sealed his mouth and attempted to listen closely.

  
“However, I did not come here to complain about my arguments with your cousin,” Dimitar took a sharp breath, sipping on a boiling hot cup of coffee, licking his lips as if it were heaven’s gift. “I came here bearing important news.”

  
"Which may be?” Sofia’s fingers wrapped around a long lock of brown hair, twirling it around in a spiral. Miroslav had spent enough time with the Austrian to tell that she played with her hair only when nervous.

Perhaps Dimitar brought bad news. A complete disaster, the earth parted open and swallowed the German army whole. Miroslav’s scarred face split in a sadistic grin at the thought.  
  


Dimitar’s shoulders rose and leaned back, eyes fixed onto Sofia’s intently. He raised his chin, a smirk adorning his face as he took a sharp breath and set down his coffee cup.

“Today, 27 of April,” Dimitar’s voice was steady, low, arrogant. “The one who Alice feared fell to our hands.”  
  


“Who is that? I do not concern myself with Alice any longer. She has stuck around Ludwig far too long to be in my best interest.”   
  


“Heracles Karpusi, Sofia. Greece, in simpler terms.”  
  


Miroslav felt as if he were struck by thunder. Heracles Karpusi fell to the Germans? No way. Dimitar is lying, for sure.  
  
  


Miroslav knew the Greek man better than the back of his hand at this point. He recalled when Heracles got into the war. The Italian ambassadors sent his boss and him an ultimatum: Allow the free passage of Italian soldiers to occupy strategic points within Greek territory.  
  


Heracles tore the ultimatum in half, declaring war on Italy. 

* * *

Miroslav witnessed Heracles march onto the mountains of Albania, within impossible temperatures, alongside his comrades. An almost fatherly figure to his soldiers, Heracles would sing his anthem like a siren in the battlefield, his voice heard across the snow-covered mountainous wastelands.  
  


Miroslav refused to accept that the nation, who had enough guts to face Italy, when his own army was clearly outnumbered and badly equipped, with obsolete guns and submarines, and win, was now a chained slave, dragged around as a prize from the Germans.  
  


“The bastard would just not die.” Dimitar sipped at his coffee as he leaned back at his chair. “He fought tooth and nail, with all he had.”  
  


“How?” Came Sofia’s curious voice, who had now let her hair free from the torture of being twirled and now had rested, intertwined, on her stomach.  
  


“Ludwig rushed through the northern parts of Greece, and quickly subdued the resistance there. He figured that since Heracles was distracted with dealing with Alice, it would be easy to blindside him and take Athens with little to no resistance.”

“Well, he was wrong.” Mused Dimitar, with an amused twinkle on his eyes. “Heracles sent his forces to attempt and stop Ludwig. Eventually he came to fight Ludwig himself; Around that time, I invaded Greek territory as well. But I sat my ass there, I just wanted my outlet to the Aegean Sea.”  
  


“Well, it didn’t end well for Heracles. He had guts, but guts will get you nowhere with no proper equipment, I say.”

“As expected!” Sofia let out an amused laugh, covering her mouth with her gloved hand. “So, I may suppose I get to house another nation?” Her purple eyes glowed with a greedy fire that made Miroslav’s blood boil.  
  


“Yes you do. He arrives tonight.”

  
“Excellent!” Sofia clasped her hands together, in an eerie sound that annoyed Miroslav further. Her gaze, satisfied, yet unsatisfied at the same time, turnt to face Miroslav’s shell-shocked eyes.  
  


“Miroslav, would you be a dear and tell the cooks to get to work? I want my new guest to feel welcome. He must be hungry, after all.”

Miroslav’s fists tightened, he could feel his teeth grind against each other. Not only had she indirectly contributed to his capture, she is planning onto mocking Heracles in front of his face, too. How _audacious_ is this woman?  
  


But it’s not like Miroslav could deny her, either way.  
  


“Yes, Miss Sofia,” He struggled to not make his voice sound too much like a growl. “I will.”  
  
With that, he turnt his back to her, and left the living room in a silent daze of fury. 


	2. 01 -- Αφιξη

The afternoon sun shone on Austria. The city of Vienna, and Lady Sofia’s estate weren’t exempt from that.  
Pale beige walls glowed in the day's light, the great windows allowing for more sunlight to pass through. As a result, walking through squeaky-clean, pure white halls of the mansion (Radomir and Miroslav’s hard work all morning), was as if one walked through a sea of light.

Miroslav spread his hand outside the window, as if he reached out to touch the wind. His tortured gaze met the sun and immediately softened.  
The sun, an eternal symbol of rebirth. All the evil and despair can engulf the Earth in a sickening grasp, but it cannot take the sun. The sun is free, exempt from all animosity. It exists for itself.  
The sun will rise again, in these war-stricken lands…

Miroslav tore his eyes away from the sun, the temptation of the window proving too powerful for him. Knowing himself and his lack of filter, he wouldn’t earn the crispy breeze of freedom any sooner.  
This also meant he wouldn’t get to return to his people, either. Until the war is over, at least.

A black thought started stirring in the back of Miroslav’s head as he dragged himself through the halls and noble rooms of the mansion, all the way to the kitchen. The living room was not too far from the kitchen, as they were both on the same floor and not too far from Lady Sofia’s library either. Miroslav just enjoyed taking the long route, which involved wandering off to other rooms aimlessly, lost in his thoughts.

  
Miroslav pushed his thoughts, as grim as they were — He needed them for the night, --, and took a deep breath. Giving the kitchen’s door a light kick to open, he unceremoniously slid inside, his usual deadpan written in the scarred face.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The kitchen was bustling. Given the time, past 12 in the morning, and that lunch is to be served in exactly 15 minutes, it was only understandable. 

Miroslav glanced past Feliks, the blond Pole who had been here from the start of this accursed war, and had strangely not lost his good cheer, despite the atrocities committed by the enemy onto his people.  
He was carrying glasses and what seemed to be cutlery, with a hasty step outside.  
Lady Sofia liked to step in her dining room to the table set perfectly and the food steaming hot.

  
Miroslav glanced past Radomir, his poor, unfortunate brother who was carrying the plates, heavy with fresh food. Radomir sent him a brief smile before disappearing from the room. Miroslav had caught a glimpse in his brother’s eyes; A glimpse of torture.

  
And deep, by the still boiling pot, leaned to the wall behind him, with the largest smirk on his face and a stubble that would put Miroslav’s to shame, was the cook himself. Francis Bonnefoy, with the company of Laura, the blonde girl scurrying back and forth to put food on the plates, fast enough for Radomir to carry once he returns.

  
Miroslav straightened his back, prepared to break the news. He and Francis had been on good terms all these years, but he was aware of the latter’s special relationship with Heracles. Francis had been an avid supporter of the nations in the Balkans, as it seems.  
  
He cleared his throat, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. His imposing height and deep voice weren’t things taken lightly here.

  
Francis’ face lit up on the sight of Miroslav.

  
“Ah, _Serbie_!” His smirk turned to a soft, almost pleased smile. “How come you’re here before lunch? Are you hungry?”

Before Miroslav could reply, Francis spoke again.  
  


“I suggest you wait just 15 minutes, mon ami. Lady Sofia will be mad if we ate by ourselves.”

  
“I’m not hungry. I have more important issues to think about.” Miroslav replied curtly. The reply came harsher than he expected, but Miroslav could not afford to care any longer.

  
“By any chance, are you the cook for today?” He pointed at Francis, his gaze never leaving the French man’s face.

  
“Of course I am!” Francis laughed. “Why do you think it looks like a masterpiece, _Serbie_ ?”

  
“Well, Francis, you better get your ass to work, then.”

“Pardon?”  
  


“Lady Sofia wants you to prepare a feast for tonight.”  
  


“How come? Is it for any party I’m not invited to?”

“Sort of.” Miroslav clicked his tongue, preparing to explain himself to the bunch of nations, who had stopped on their tracks just to listen.  
He could feel Feliks and Radomir’s eyes stabbing on his back.

Miroslav took a deep breath, deeper than he expected, and let his gaze lower. His head followed it.

“Heracles Karpusi has been captured.”

The simultaneous gasps of many souls in the room echoed, Francis’ being the largest. They all had acted like that when he was captured too, Francis told him one night. The captive nations, gathered in this estate, had developed a small family on their own, as it seemed. 

It started when Feliks and Francis were brought in here in Vienna, and it grew larger after Western nations started falling to the tyrants of Europe.

  
Soon, these nations started cheering for the remaining nations, to not give up the war efforts. Miroslav and Radomir’s captures were most disheartening for these captive nations.

  
Heracles’ capture must have felt similarly.  
  


The nations broke in shameless gossip, faces pale and bloodless, like spectres’. Francis backed himself on the wall, gaze never breaking from Miroslav, the bearer of bad news.

“Heracles fell? B-But I believed Bretagne was helping him out?” Francis’ eyes widened like the dead’s, searched Miroslav’s fallen face, hopeless for answers. His mouth hung open by his face, as if a great disaster had fallen upon them.

  
“Herk fell?” Came Radomir’s question, voice painted with disbelief.

Miroslav nodded silently, allowing his eyes to meet with Radomir’s.

“O Bože.”

Radomir clasped his hands in front of his face, walking towards his brother with his usual feather-light steps, like a rabbit’s through the woods. Miroslav could barely hear him in complete silence, let alone the intolerable ruckus that was torturing his ears, with every nation whispering and gossiping on their own accord.

  
Radomir wrapped an arm around his brother’s stiff shoulders, frozen in place, pressing them firmly against his chest. 

Miroslav’s hairs stood on the back of his neck. Radomir did this when he was still a young child, crying out for their mother, his brother attempting to mimic an embrace from their mother. A fruitless attempt, as it usually did nothing to soothe him as a child. What would it do as a grown adult?

  
Miroslav’s eyes shut close, a shiver rocked his body to straight down the core of his heart. It was the closest Miroslav and Radomir had got lately, and sometimes, he craved for his youth, and the odd, homely warmth of his siblings’ cape….

“Hoćeš li biti dobro?”

Radomir’s feather soft, and yet firm, unmoving voice hid a layer of genuine care Miroslav hadn’t heard in years. His brother was worried.  
He was worried. And he, like an idiot, had let him and his siblings down, alongside their people, for being so weak and losing Belgrade to the Axis.  
One of the many bleak thoughts Miroslav struggled to hide, surfaced upon his mind, tarnishing all it touched. Including feelings, guilt crashed down like an icicle to his back.

  
Despite that, Miroslav swallowed his pride and pushed the thought back to its wasteland. He had taught himself to do that, doing that all the time, for such a prolonged period made the process much easier than it sounded.

  
Biting his bottom lip, Miroslav lifted his chin up and took a sharp breath, as if he were expecting something.  
  


“Da, biću dobro.”

  
The kitchen was still bustling with the voices of many nations talking simultaneously, but a quick glance from Miroslav’s eagle eyes could tell they weren’t as worried for Heracles as they were before. Even Francis seemed to have calmed down significantly.

Radomir pulled his sleeve up to reveal a small wristwatch. The time was 1 o’clock, and lunch was to begin at approximately 5 minutes.

  
“I hope you’re hungry, Mirko.” Radomir winked at his brother, his smile soft. “Francis really gave it his all today.”

  
“It was like he knew we were going to have a shitty day.”

  
“Maybe.” Radomir snorted, and rushed past him to grab a couple of plates full of food, still warm and fresh.

  
Miroslav shrugged and took a sharp turn to the exit, crawling his way to the dining room. The thoughts were escaping their prison, for what seemed to be the 5th time this day.

 _  
And it was barely 1 pm_ , Miroslav growled to himself.

  
He just hoped Francis’ food was as good as Radko had claimed.

  
  


* * *

The sun had set hours ago, and the dreaded car that would carry the exhausted, beaten Heracles hadn’t arrived yet. 

  
Lady Sofia and Miroslav alike shared the same feelings for once. Nervous glances on the clock every 2 minutes, tensing up at the slightest noise from outside. Miroslav caught himself trembling when washing the lunch dishes, odd enough as his hands were steady and firm. Especially in washing the dishes.

  
Lady Sofia paced back and forth in her living room, her piano and copy of Dostoevsky’s _Crime And Punishment_ failing to keep her mind occupied, her feet less so. Miroslav could hear her all the way from the kitchen, puffing and cursing in German underneath her breath.

  
A knot was tied deep within Miroslav’s stomach, a knot that grew minute by minute. The more it grew, the more Miroslav felt as if the air was slowly robbed out of his lungs.

_Just where the hell was Heracles already?_

  
He had enough on his plate for today, dealing with Sofia’s chores and her increasingly erratic behaviour (caused by a similar anxiety as his), and the last thing he wanted was to deal with the case of a missing nation. 

  
He pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and sunk deep into it, waiting in silence as he could practically feel the knot on his stomach grow. His fingers fidgeted with each other, feet tapping onto the floor in a rhythm that annoyed Miroslav himself.

  
The awkward silence, occasionally broken by Miroslav’s feet tapping against the floor, or by Lady Sofia’s grumbling, was shattered within the darkness that had swallowed the estate like a beast. The nights were beasts, in the Austrian capital, amidst a war ravaging nations across the world…

  
A feminine voice echoed from outside the estate, distinct and foreign accent tinting it.

“Ms. Austria! They have come!”

With the hearing of these words, Miroslav launched himself from his chair to his feet. They had come? Who? Heracles?  
It had to be Heracles, Miroslav reminded himself. The estate was waiting for no one else this late, and would hold dinner back this late only for “guests”. Guests like Heracles.  
Translation: Captives.

Miroslav stood by the kitchen’s doorframe, awaiting the nation that would in a minute cross the threshold to this cursed estate.  
But the one who entered was not the one Miroslav expected.

  
A girl clad in a dull green military uniform, complete with tall brown boots and black gloves, hasted inside the mansion. Her straight, light brown hair was pushed back with a pink flower, the top of her head concealed by a similarly dull green beret.

She was Erzsébet Héderváry, Lady Sofia’s ex-wife, and current ally in the war that ravaged them. The woman was a living tank; She lived to fight, if her history revealed anything.

  
  
Miroslav had involved himself in her business a lot lately, however he tried being as respectful as possible. Not only did this woman intimidate him, she also was annoying, at least to his eyes.

  
Sofia turned sharp in her heel to face Erzsébet, who was waiting patiently by the door. With equally hasty steps as her pacing before, Sofia clasped her hands together.

“Is he here?”

“Yes,” Erzsébet replied, with a small, confidential smile on her face.  
“He’s here. Dimitar is preparing him.”

  
“For what?”

  
Erzsébet shrugged, her hands concealed behind her back.  
“He still struggles. So Dimitar is making sure he doesn’t lash out at you.”

Miroslav grimaced. Of course Heracles would not just let himself get taken like that. He did promise he’d fight to his dying breath.  
But it was the easiest thing for Sofia to break a spirit like Heracles’. A single night in the dungeon underneath the mansion would suffice.

  
  
Miroslav shuddered at the mere thought.

* * *

  
  


Erzsébet turned around, hands still held together behind her back, and leaned in closer to the open door.

“Oh! Speak of the devil. Here he comes.”

  
Miroslav stood straight, stepping outside of the kitchen. He could feel cold sweat drip to his back, his hands tremble. Why were they trembling? This was the worst time for him to be nervous! Especially in front of Sofia!

  
Muffled curses, hisses of pain and barely veiled, although in foreign languages, threats echoing from the darkness outside grew louder in volume, alongside erratic steps.

  
The perpetrators revealed themselves after a minute of silence.  
  


Dimitar, in his sharp khaki military outfit, which looked almost new on him, wearing his… rather worn out cap, crooked on his head and revealing most of his hair, darker than the night, giving a perfect contrast with his pale skin. His gloved hands held a rope-like device. In the darkness, it was difficult for Miroslav to tell.

His face was flushed and bloodied, an open wound on his cheek — from a scratch, Miroslav guessed — dripping crimson liquid on his just washed white shirt he wore underneath his uniform.

“Great,” Miroslav thought, a bitter wave washing all over him. “We’ll never hear the end of this.”

  
“Dimitar!” His thoughts were interrupted from Sofia’s shrill, concerned voice. She rushed to his side, gently pressing on his wounded cheek, earning a wince and a grunt from him. 

“Does it hurt? Is it deep?”

Dimitar winced away from her hands, concealing the bleeding wound with his gloved hand. He shot her a strict glare.

“It’s just a scratch, calm down.”

His previously neutral expression shifted to a sly, almost malicious smirk. 

“You should see the old man.” He said, eyes fixed on the rope he was holding. Giving it a tight squeeze, he let out a commanding screech.

“Gŭrtsiya! Vzemi si dupeto tuk!”

And in a blink of an eye, Heracles was harshly pulled inside the mansion, his figure, previously concealed in darkness, exposed to the dim light of the mansion.  
A rope tied around his neck, black chains binding his wrists together behind his back, Heracles resembled a rebellious helot from the times of his youth.  
Blood dripped down his mouth, and a dark shadow had seized his eye, swelling it dangerously. The bruise looked fresh, as if a great, albeit silent fist-fight had occurred moments ago. He was still clad in his signature dark khaki, almost dark green, military uniform, which was now torn and burnt, worn out and dirty, from the struggle he put up.

  
Miroslav couldn’t help but widen his eyes at his friend’s tattered, beaten up appearance. The proud nation of Greece, before him, looked more like a pauper, a commoner hiding in a bomb shelter.

  
Miroslav saw himself in place of his friend. He too came into the estate, with his Royal Army uniform in pieces, burnt and tattered. Miroslav looked as if he wore rags, and not a uniform.

Bože, it seemed like these two were just _MEANT_ to have similar fates.

“He still has fight inside him,” Dimitar’s chuckle, a mix of sarcasm and surprise seeping in his voice, pulled Miroslav away from his thoughts. “I had to force him into these just so he doesn’t run away.”

“Well, I think Heracles looks ready to run away either way.” Erzsébet said sheepishly, hiding her half-smile with her hand. Her eyes grew serious in what seemed a dime to Miroslav, drawing a shiver out of him.

“That’s enough. Untie him, Dimitar. Görögország’s going nowhere.”

“Hold it,” Sofia threw her hand in a halt motion. “Force him on his knees first. He might have a concealed gun.”

“If I had a concealed gun,” Heracles hissed between bleeding teeth. “I wouldn’t waste its bullet on your fucking face.”

“Ah, really?” Sofia raised a mocking eyebrow, a taunting smirk gracing her usually calm face.  
“And what would you do with it?”

“I’d shoot myself.” Heracles’ gaze darkened, his green eyes losing all light within them momentarily.  
“I’d rather die than fall to you, barbarians.”

  
“How heroic of you, Heracles.” Dimitar chuckled again. This time his laugh reflected genuine amusement rather than a mood for mocking him. “Isn’t it delightful I seized all of your guns beforehand?”

  
And with that, Dimitar’s grip on the rope became one with iron. With a rough tug, he practically threw Heracles on the floor beneath Sofia’s feet, bound and unarmed, left exposed to the taller figures that seemed to hover above him.

  
  
“What the hell are you doing?!” Miroslav burst out with no thought before opening his mouth. He wanted to protest, he wanted to speak up for Heracles. No one would stop him from doing so. “He’s already hurt enough!”

  
“Heracles should think before he speaks,” Erzsébet's words were venomous, hidden behind a veil of kindness. Her forest green eyes immediately fixed on Miroslav’s golden ones, a warning darkness coating her eyes.

“So should you, Miroslav.”

  
Miroslav opened his mouth to retort, but was interrupted by Sofia’s voice and glare, fixed on all parties involved.

“Enough, Miroslav, enough Erzsébet . It is late and we all need to rest.” Her gaze seemed to soften when met with Heracles’ intense, burning eyes, which had focused themselves on the imposing woman speaking. “Especially you, Heracles. Your journey here must have been rough.”

  
Heracles nodded, his gaze lowering to the floor beneath him. Truth was, he was hungry, and very, very exhausted.

Miroslav could smell his exhaustion.

  
“Miroslav?” Sofia’s voice, addressed directly at him, startled the man in question. 

“Y-Yeah?”

  
“Take our guest in the kitchen, untie him, and give him the food Francis made. And let him eat as much as his heart desires.” A sweet smile of much desired compassion shone in Sofia’s face.

_A sweet facade,_ Miroslav bleakly reminded himself. _Tomorrow, her true colors will reveal themselves._

“Oh! And I hope you don’t mind having a roommate. The spare bed in your room will be Heracles’. We have a shortage, we need to save up, you understand, right?”

“I do.” Miroslav’s heart fluttered at the thought of Heracles being his roommate. They were close, and fairly comfortable with each other. It shouldn’t be too awkward for them.

“Excellent. Now please, to the kitchen. The rest of you, to your rooms, immediately. It is late, and we have work to do.” Sofia’s face hardened, her smile dropping to an imposing frown, a frown that inspired respect to her peers.

And so it happened. Miroslav took the rope from Dimitar’s hand, and hoisting Heracles by the waist, rushed him to the kitchen, whilst Erzsebet and Dimitar scattered to their rooms like scared kittens, with Sofia heeling beside them.

  
The dim light faded away from the hall. It was nighttime in the estate, and all ends when the light fades.

  
Not for Miroslav and Heracles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O Bože = Oh my God  
> Hoćeš li biti dobro? = Will you be okay?  
> Da, biću dobro. = Yes, I'll be fine.  
> Gŭrtsiya! Vzemi si dupeto tuk! = Greece! Get your ass here!


	3. 02--Mrak se diže

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rose = England

The mansion had fallen silent.

The only thing that could be heard inside the pitch-black halls and unlit rooms was the ticking of the glorious clock, set up in the hall leading near the kitchen. Its unsettling, slightly off-tune rhythm echoed in the mansion, as if it were empty, completely devoid of life.  
  


Inside such darkness and silence sat Miroslav, seated on a comfortable kitchen chair, across the small wooden table. Covered with a rugged cloth so as not to get dirty, his eyes focused on the darkness swallowing the room. Opposite of him, in an equally comfortable chair, sat the “guest”, Heracles, beaten and visibly injured. Devouring plate after plate of Francis’ (miraculously) still warm food, Heracles’ appetite never seemed to settle. A candle holder, put in the center of the table, held a single candle, a flame burning on its top, combating the absolute.  
  


Miroslav’s eyes watched idly as Heracles attacked his plate of food like a wolf. His captors must have deprived him of food for weeks. Heracles was never the type to eat much, even if he had plenty of food. He preferred to eat light, whether it be morning, or midday, or night.

The silence between the men grew thicker as Heracles downed his last bite, relishing in the taste.  
  
  


Miroslav felt the back of his neck burn. It was getting too much; the silence killing them. He had to break it, somehow.   
  
  


“How was the food?” He asked simply, believing small talk was the only way to go. He had so many questions, so many things to talk about, he trusted Heracles, but seeing the condition of the beaten man opposite to him, he believed it was better to let him rest.

“Good, or perhaps I was simply hungry.” Came Heracles’ answer, straight-forward and steady. His answer condemned them again to silence.  
  


“How long have you been fighting?” Miroslav blurted out, unable to resist his questions any longer. He craved to know, he wanted to know if his friend recalled anything of their friendship before, or if it had all been burnt in the ashes of war.  
  


“About a year. I had to fight Alice.” Heracles hung his head low. “She didn’t _want_ to fight me, Miroslav. I saw it in her eyes.”  
  


His gaze darkened. “Though, I still did it. I fought her.”  
  


Miroslav’s ears picked up a tone of pain in his voice. A pain, like a parent betraying their child. A brother hurting his brother. A friend abandoning another.

  
“Why?”  
  


“No one can just come and demand they use my people and my land as playthings for their own pleasure,” Heracles’ gaze, still dark even in front of the light of the candle, shot straight through Miroslav. “If it happens, I just have to fight with all I have. Even if it is Italy, I _have_ to fight.  


Miroslav smiled at the notion. It was so relieving to hear Heracles say these things, even in the dimly lit room of his captivity. Unbroken, untamed and with a love for his people so deep, he’d die protecting them. That’s just how Heracles was. Miroslav watched him prove this too many times for it to be mere bragging. The War of Independence, the Balkan Wars, World War I….  
  


His people and Heracles’ people had more in common than he thought. Both vigorous people, with a desire for freedom. That must have been what tied the two nations so close to each other. Also, the Orthodox Church.  
  


“... How did you fall?” Miroslav questioned again, folding his hands to his chest and leaning against his chair.   
  


Heracles sighed.  
  


“Ludwig came through Bulgaria, and Dimitar let him pass. But unlike Alice, Ludwig didn’t hold back. He came to conquer and destroy, and that’s what he did.”  
  
  


Heracles took out a cigarette from his uniform’s pocket and lit it on the candle’s fire. Taking a long, satisfying sip, he breathed out and continued without giving Miroslav the chance to ask for a cigarette.  
  


“Before I knew it, he had steamrolled through Thrace and Macedonia. My commander at these areas asked for backup — I just thought the Bulgarians had come. I didn’t worry too much about Dimitar’s force either way. I sent a couple of battalions there and my wish for a quick and easy battle.”

Another sip of the cigarette.  
  


“In the meantime, most of my men were up in the mountains, fighting Alice. I had to receive a call from my Prime Minister to know that the straw-haired bastard had overran Thessaloniki and was heading for the heart of the nation, Athens. Getting these soldiers off the mountains and catching up to him was no simple task, however.”

“I took a lot of my army and caught a train to Athens. The rest of them stayed in the mountains by my request, holding back the Italians as I tried to catch up to the Germans…”  
Heracles’ head hung low, his gaze sunk to the floor beneath his shoes, hand holding the cigarette above his head, sprinkling some ash on his hair.

  
“Rose and two of her brothers had arrived a few days before to help me out. I have no idea why, but it’s not like I don’t appreciate their help. She evacuated her troops to my cities, and went to break Ludwig’s momentum at Thermopylae, to buy me some time while I retreated. She failed…”

  
“I caught the bastard as he was about to enter Athens. I had with me just an outdated rifle and a few bullets, and my combat dagger. Similarly, to my people. He had several newly made, custom weapons and the strength of a thousand men. He told me that if I can defeat him in a simple fight, just us two, then he’d leave Athens and consider me free.”  
  
“I couldn’t do it, Miroslav. Just as I was preparing to throw a punch at him, his generals seized me by my hair and threw me against the nearest wall. Ludwig didn’t even move from his place. From the position I was in, I could only watch in despair, as a few armored cars and the blond demons riding them climb up the Acropolis.”

The last word was breathed out heavily, as if Heracles was struggling to keep his tears from running down his throat. Miroslav felt a shiver run down his spine.  
  
“They raised their filthy piece of rag up there… The filthy set of red and black and the ugly, broken cross like thing… The swastika or whatever...”

Heracles stubbed his cigarette against the wall, his eyes overran with tears. His voice, caught in his throat, whisked out. Miroslav rose from his seat, walking next to his friend, placing a comforting hand on his back. It wasn’t the first time he had to do it.  
While he was fighting, comforting his soldiers was basically his occupation. Replenishing their morale, giving them cigarettes, allowing them to express the injuries that the war inflicted on them.  
  
That’s a duty of a nation in war.  
  
Heracles initially winced at the touch, making Miroslav retract his hand from his shoulder. But a silent nod and a calm green gaze that pierced Miroslav’s eyes gave him the signal to continue. And he obeyed.

  
Heracles gave the man next to him a gentle smile, squeezing his hand with his own, a unique symbol of affection. Miroslav patted Heracles’ back and leaned back on the wall, his eyes tenderly searching for Heracles’ forest green.

  
Heracles pulled out another cigarette and lit it up, sipping on it greedily, as if it were a straw on a cup of water. Exhaling ash and burning smoke, Heracles raised his eyebrow.

“I spilled my guts,” He said, a slightly playful smirk tugging on his lips. “Don’t you think you should repay the favor?”   
  
“Favor?” Miroslav crossed his arms on his chest and leaned back on the wall, the light disappearing from his body as he retreated in the kitchen's blackness.

  
“Like do what for you?”

  
“How did you come here?” Heracles asked, lit cigarette still on hand, burning butt creeping closer to his already scarred hand. “You’ve been awfully quiet, Miroslav. I’m getting worried.”

  
A glance on Heracles’ face revealed no worry. Only an endless pit of apathy, induced by thousands of years gone by, suffering and cruelty burdening the soul and pulling it down to drown in an ocean of hatred.

  
Miroslav knew that feeling well. It started weighing on him again. It existed to torment him, to forcibly open his eyes every day and end the pretension that he ever had a chance for a normal life. Like all nations.

  
Miroslav tried to utter words, explain to his friend his current predicament, and while he felt his jaw move, he heard no words come out of his mouth.  
Heracles leaned in closer, closer to him, as if he attempted to listen to what Miroslav was saying. But no sound came out.

“Miroslav…?”

  
Miroslav gritted his teeth, and pulled his fist closer to his face, to rest against his forehead.

“Sorry… I spaced out,” He whispered, hand still pushing against his forehead. “It… It really is a story for another time.”

A blazing feeling came over to Miroslav’s body, jerking it against the wall he was leaning to. Miroslav felt the air escape his lungs and his throat constrict and swell within his body.  
His legs felt like cotton, his vision smeared with black ink slowly creeping in to fill his entire view. And he was falling… And falling...

  
A sharp gasp was the only thing he could muster, drawing the attention of the Greek man, quietly smoking by himself.

Heracles swiftly jumped on his feet, seizing Miroslav on his body and holding him close to his chest. The man clutched his stomach in what seemed pure agony, while his face, sunken and bleak, reminded Heracles of the frostbitten dead up in the mountains.

He shivered in disgust. From this bleak memory came nothing but regrets. 

Heracles slapped Miroslav’s face lightly, attempting to bring the young man back to his senses. But he stayed unmoving, unblinking, paralyzed with body-breaking pain, one that steals all senses from the victim, and condemns them to the stillness of nothing.

  
The candle’s flame was burning out, the darkness creeping closer and closer to the two figures.   
Heracles, standing almost frozen, afraid to hurt Miroslav further, was lost on what to do. Miroslav was breathing, struggling to earn his breath, but at least he was breathing.

The candle’s flame snuffed out of existence, banishing Heracles and Miroslav to unrelenting murkiness. And with it, came silence.

Another gasp shattered the silence like ice. Miroslav gasped for breath, holding onto Heracles’ tattered cloth for dear life, attempting to find the balance on his feet.  
The black ink had withdrawn from his eyes, his legs felt sturdy and he could walk on his own, but the looming sense of dread on his chest hadn’t left yet.  Miroslav pulled Heracles closer, eliciting a confused grunt from him, and held his head to his own eye level.

  
"They’re killing _them_ \- T-They’re… They’re killing my _children_ , Heracles!” He cried out, voice too high and raspy for his liking, but at this point he could care no longer. “They’re hurting them, killing them like cattle!”  
  


Heracles struggled to free his head from Miroslav’s grip, but it only got tighter as he got pulled in closer to him. The complete darkness hid his eyes, but if Heracles could see them, he knew that he’d see the pain of a nation far too tortured to function.  
  


“ _They will do it to yours too._ ” Trembling, tortured voice of a nation in pain. Heracles brought his arms behind Miroslav’s back and wrapped them around him, bringing him to a loose hug.

Miroslav’s shirt was wet and warm, sticking to his back like glue. Even in complete darkness, Heracles could tell right away: He was covered in blood.  


The blood of the Serbian people.

Miroslav seemed to relax under Heracles’ embrace, his trembling hands retreating to his sides, tearful eyes devoid of emotion. He moved his jaw alongside Heracles’ shoulder and rested it there, evoking a response from the Greek man.

“Are you okay, Miroslav?”  
  


“No.”  
  


“I can carry you upstairs to rest, if you’d like.”  
  


Miroslav stayed silent for a bit. He closed his eyes, allowing some tears to run down like wild horses, down his cheek.  
  


“I… I’d appreciate it.”

* * *

  
  


Similarly to the rest of the mansion, Miroslav’s room was darker than black.  
  
  


Heracles’ eyes were accustomed to the ink black darkness by now, but his lack of knowledge of the place got him into some trouble, in order to figure out how to move around without accidentally crushing any expensive vase.  
  


It was harder than he thought, especially when supporting a half-fainted man, numbed by pain and struggling to stand on his legs, by his waist. And man, was he heavy.  
Despite Miroslav’s protests, claiming “he was fine” and that “he could walk by himself now”, Heracles persevered.

  
And soon enough, he barged inside his and Miroslav’s room.

  
Heracles struggled to find a candle, as Miroslav freed himself from his grasp, shambling his way to the small window between the beds. This house, Heracles bitterly thought, was in a serious lack of candles. And matchsticks.

  
“Do you have a candle lying around?”

  
  
Miroslav turned his head around from the window, grabbing the bottom of his shirts and lifting it up. “No, to my recollection. Rely on the moonlight for now.”

  
  
Heracles nodded, his mind straying off to an eternal blankness, as his eyes were surveying the floor. A plain wooden construct, with no personality or originality in it. He almost cringed.

And in the naked moonlight, his eyes caught sight of Miroslav.

The light doused him, revealing his scarred face, golden eyes blazing against the black surrounding him. A slight stubble picked on his face. But what stood out was his body. Albeit tall and muscular (exactly as Heracles remembered him, before the wars), his back was crossed by deep scratch marks and cuts. Open wounds dressed the body like a badly chosen shirt, and crimson blood running fresh like rivers on a field in spring.

Miroslav opened a shelf in a nightstand near his bed, revealing nothing but rolls and rolls of bandages. Before he could blink, Miroslav was dressing his wounds as if he was a combat medic. 

Heracles had to rub his eyes at the man’s skill. 

  
“Looks like you know exactly what you’re doing.” A small chuckle left Heracles’ lips, unintentional but free, like him. His laugh was free.

  
Miroslav turned around sharply, the roll of bandages still in hand. A tired smile of slight amusement was written on his face. “I patched up quite a lot of folks during the wars. I know what I’m doing.” He replied, eyes turning to the ceiling. He lowered his head, biting sharply on the roll, tearing it off and throwing it on the floor as if it were trash.

  
He sat down on his bed, eyes dark and hands trembling from what Heracles believed was stress. He turned around and laid on his bed carefully, not to rip the bandages he just laid on his skin, and with eyes blank, he stared at the ceiling.  
  
  
Heracles took off the rags he called a uniform and dumped them to the floor, stripping to a plain shirt and pants provided in a closet near the door. He walked unceremoniously near Miroslav’s bed, picked up the fallen bandages and placed them gently on Miroslav’s nightstand, waving the man goodnight as he came closer to him.  
  
Heracles felt exhaustion grab his body, prompting him to fall asleep as he deserved it. A good night’s rest would, however, not heal the exhaustion he felt deep inside. There was another solution for that.

He rose from the nightstand and rushed near his uniform.

Frisking it.  
  


The Greek cusses and calls of “where have I put it?” piqued Miroslav’s interest, who, despite his suffering, found himself still awake, staring at an empty, lifeless ceiling. He rose gently from the bed, hands resting on his inner thighs.

“What are you _doing_?” He questioned, not expecting much of an answer. Heracles was pretty secretive about his doings, even to his own brother. Quiet, mysterious and keeping to himself, Heracles’ calm gaze deceived many, and tricked those who dared to light the fire inside him.

This was no incident. All Miroslav could see from the angle he was at was Heracles’ back as he frisked his own uniform, seeking something.  
  


His hand dived in one of the least tattered pockets of his uniform shirt, eliciting a pleased noise from him.

Heracles rose from his knees to his full height. In his hand, a small book with a black cover. He stepped closer to him with a genuine grin across his face, the face of an excitable child, allowing Miroslav to see details clearly.  
  


The book was small, but thick in pages. Its cover was black and hard, with a golden cross drawn on it, and the words “ΙΕΡΑ ΒΙΒΛΟΣ” looming above it, like a crown.  
A Holy Bible. Heracles actually brought it here.

  
Miroslav’s eyes widened, life returning to them as if it was the blood he lost.

“You brought a Bible!” He whispered, barely able to keep his enthusiasm at check. He hadn’t seen his own copy since he got brought into this estate and was dying to read one verse again.  
  
“I can read a verse for you, if you’d like.” Heracles’ eyes softened, his hands gentle and careful, opening the Bible and giving it a gentle rub on its back. As if the Bible was his own child.

  
Miroslav nodded and laid on his side, minding his injuries, ear pressed against his pillow, eager to hear the words he longed for. All this time he was imprisoned in this fancy hell.

  
Heracles took a deep breath in, as he pointed out a verse he found interesting.

“Psalm 40:1-3.” His voice was like a siren’s to Miroslav’s ears. He gripped on his bedsheets, awaiting Heracles’ chanting.

“I waited patiently for the Lord; he turned to me and heard my cry. He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand. He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God. Many will see and fear the Lord and put their trust in him.”

  
  


Miroslav closed his eyes, enveloping himself in darkness likewise to the world. Fear ran through his body, through his blood, his heartbeat hasting and hasting by the second.  
But the words of God and Heracles’ voice, a song amidst a battle, spread light on the universe. He could already feel gentle hands dragging him to a restful sleep, as Heracles read verses out loud.  
His heartbeat slowed, veins no longer trapped within the ice of fear.

He was free. At least in his sleep.

His people would soon be free too.

  
  
  
  
  


“ Philippians 4:6.” Heracles whispered to himself, his eyelids weighing. Exhausting has seized the best of him, but he was determined to finish that verse. He gathered his breath and went on. “Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

Heracles leaned on his bed, the Bible resting against his chest. His hands instinctively shut it close and clenched it to his chest, the only thing giving him hope. The only thing he could trust.

He spared a glance at Miroslav next to him. The man had fallen deeply asleep, hands slightly tugging at the bedsheets. But the smile on his face and slow rise and fall of his chest said he was a lucky man.  
  
Heracles couldn’t help but smile at him. How different Miroslav looked when he was asleep.

But his mind, clouded by violence and fear, clinging to his verses for the light, prompted him to sleep. And he obeyed.

He saw blood on his dreams. Blood running down the floor, the walls replacing the waterfalls at Edessa.

Blood raining from above and blood dancing around him, binding his wrists together and lacing around his neck.

  
  
  
  
  
  


But Heracles did not believe in dreams.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello ~
> 
> Merry late Christmas!!  
> I'm so sorry for this chapter being late!! I got caught up on my own personal issues and finals ;;


	4. 03 -- Νεο Προσωπο

_June 1_

_Vienna_

* * *

  
  


And thus passed the days.

Months had passed from Heracles’ arrival on the estate, and with every day that passed by, a crushing weight lingered on his soul. The one of guilt. Guilt for abandoning his people like a coward, for he didn’t fight to his last breath as he promised to himself he would.

No. He had allowed himself to be thrown against the wall, to be handcuffed and thrown in the back of a truck, to be taken, like a wounded animal, to the Devil’s city, Vienna.

Were he under any other circumstance, he’d appreciate the city. Heracles didn’t hide his appreciation for fine arts, especially architecture, if one was to be concerned. He was never into the classical music of the Germans or Italians, but he could appreciate its messages.

But now, the city was a prison for him. And the estate, his cell.

  
  


Afternoon sunlight fell on his head, turning his hair into a bright golden hue and his eyes into emeralds. Heracles momentarily lifted his head from the pile of dishes he was assigned to wash to gaze at the sun.

He immediately scoffed. The sun of the Austrian skies was nothing like the Greek one. It didn’t flare nor burn the world with its light; it didn’t offer the warmth of hope and prosperity that the Greek one promised.

He returned to his dishes with a long, disappointed sigh.

Next to him stood his friend, Miroslav. A powerful warrior, both of the past and present, reduced to a mere dishwasher. Heracles could see the bags under his amber eyes, traitors to his exhaustion and grief. 

Miroslav washed his assigned pile of dishes almost obediently, not sparing a glance to the sun above him nor to his fellow Balkan friend. Not a word was spoken, but the occasional sigh.

  
  


Heracles glanced at his pile. It was still several feet tall, even though washing he seemed to have started an hour ago. He let out a low curse as he scrubbed the plates mechanically. 

This must have been a punishment for something he said, he thought. It was no surprise the Teuton barbarians didn’t take a liking to him. Even enslaved, he still had his rebellious spirit intact; He cared not about his government, who he heard from almost daily, chatting with Lady Sofia as if no war was taking place.  
  


Miroslav raised his gaze from the plate he was washing and let his eyes focus on Heracles. With no hesitation, as a friend and ally, he spoke.

“What are you thinking?”  
  


“Stuff,” Came Heracles’ reply, his eyes fixated on washing his plates. “Like my government.”  
  


“It’s in exile, is it not?”  
  


“The rightful one, yes. The Germans brought a new one, one that supports their ideology of hatred.” Heracles’ teeth gritted, his hands tightening their grip on a plate, threatening to shatter it.

“They’re **not** my children. They’re traitors and deserve nothing from me.”

Miroslav nodded in understanding. His gaze hardened under the sun’s glare, softening momentarily. He related to the man next to him perfectly, as if they were one soul split in two bodies. 

But he remained in silence and focused on cleaning up his pile of filthy dishes quickly. As delicious as Lady Sofia’s cooking was, she surely loved her food to leave a mess on the plate, if you did not immediately lick it off completely.  
  
  
  


Heracles shot a glance behind the kitchen’s open door, gaining access to the living room. Although his vision was blocked by the heavy wooden door concealing half of the other room, he could see Lady Sofia’s purple silk dress flow down a comfortable couch, and Erzsebet’s sturdy combat boots firmly pressed on the floor. All Heracles could hear was the two women’s laughter, a sound that gritted on his nerves like a fork pulling against a marble plate.

This sight merely reminded Heracles of the fact that he was unfree. Trapped inside a rich estate that slowly suffocated him, alongside many unfortunate souls seeking escape. But alas, unless the Allies decide to grow some balls and invade Vienna out of the blue, or miraculously, the war ends the next day. They could do next to nothing.

Heracles’ hands trembled with disgust. The temptation to shatter the plates and scream was beckoning to him, toying with his brain.  
But logic again took over, and Heracles put aside the temptations to focus on his tasks — quietly humming a song of freedom.

Miroslav could only smile slightly at his friend’s humming. A song of freedom. He could faintly hear Heracles singing it, as how he sang it in the mountains of Albania. How he screamed its lyrics while charging at Sadik, 120 years ago, a blue and white flag raised against the burning Greek sun, and the threat of Ottoman gunmen.  
How he leaned against the wall while smoking, patrolling the Balkan swamps with him and Radomir a couple of years ago, the melody of the hymn escaping his lips.  
The Hymn to Freedom. Heracles’ anthem.

Miroslav grinned as he felt himself hum his own anthem. A bit louder than Heracles, a fact that grabbed his attention.  
But instead of stopping their humming, the two men merely shared a wink as they held onto their songs.  
It was the only thing keeping them close to their exiled people, after all.

* * *

  
  


A honking noise tore through the air, seizing the attention of all who inhabited the estate. Even the unusually calm Erzsebet grew alarmed with the noise.  
  


Lady Sofia, her gloved hands fiddling with each other, rose from her sofa to her large windows, veiled by thick silk beige curtains, which concealed her living room from outside view. Discreetly, she pulled them aside to peek outside, thin brows drawing together.  
  


Outside of the estate stood tall buildings, their colors dull and worn out, typical of bustling capital cities. The streets were usually quiet, as the estate was placed in a rather unexplored neighbourhood, with the occasional car passing by.  
But this time, a black car was stationed outside of the house, as if it was waiting for someone to come outside of the estate. Shiny black, like the night itself, and almost squeaky clean, as if it were a brand new car.  
Sofia could see a familiar face through the car’s windows, or a very familiar curl. Auburn and curly, belonging to a certain ponytail-wearing woman.

Sofia let her mouth gape open as she turned around on her heel, putting the curtain back to its original position.  
Her purple eyes widened, shone with new life.

“Alice is here!” She spoke, joy tinting her every word. “That must mean Ludwig must have arrived too!”

Erzsebet, seated on the sofa with her long brown hair loose, let a grin spread across her face as she laced her fingers with each other.  
“How wonderful! Let them in, quick!”

* * *

  
  


Miroslav and Heracles leaned behind the kitchen’s doorframe, ears stuck to the thin walls, hoping to glimpse what’s happening, or at least hear anything that might interest them.

From their position, Miroslav, as he was the tallest of the two, could get the best view of the hall of the Estate, without being caught. However, Heracles did not seem to care about being caught, as he kept poking his head outside, hoping to see any chance of escape.

Sofia walked to the door of the Estate, a childish skip on her heels, something most unbeknownst from the serious and methodical Sofia. Heracles scoffed at her joy.  
  


“She must have just finished thinking about how she’ll torture us while listening to her piano.” He whispered, poison dripping from his tongue.  
  


“Shut up,” Replied Miroslav, pushing Heracles’ head inside the room. “Something is going on.”

  
  


The door opened, and sounds of excited German and girly laughter filled the air, and Miroslav and Heracles’ ears. Heracles cringed at the language, allowing himself to creep outside from the doorframe.  
  


Sofia was hugging a tall, muscular man, with slicked blond hair and clad in a uniform blacker than coal. His hand was clutching an unnaturally large black bag. From his neck hung the cross of dread, the Iron Cross.

Realization struck him like thunder.

Heracles felt his lunch rise to his mouth. From all people, why him?  
Ludwig Beilschmidt, the personification of Germany himself. The blond demon who was the start of his suffering. The reason he bled every day. The reason Miroslav passed out on Heracles’ hands, panic seizing his mind and sending him to a hell of pain and agony.

And next to him stood a shorter girl of slightly less pale complexion. Golden eyes shone even at the odd lights of the estate, auburn hair caught in a wavy ponytail, and perky curl bouncing with her every movement. She wore a sand-colored uniform, which lacked the damned Iron Cross, replacing it with a long black tie instead.

Heracles blinked. The woman was Alice, the personification of Italy, no doubt about it. She looked as if no day had passed ever since she attempted to invade him, but Heracles could see the reluctancy in her eyes.

The same reluctance that reflected in her eyes when she first saw him in the snow-covered wasteland.

Heracles bit his lip and withdrew from the door, positioning himself behind the wall, allowing Miroslav to see in his place, with a silent nod.  
  
  


Miroslav did not speak an ounce of German, thus Sofia and Ludwig’s conversation revealed nothing to him. What he could see, however, is that the bag that Ludwig was holding was _MOVING_.  
Miroslav blinked twice, making sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him.  
He looked again. The bag was moving on its own.  
Its movements bothered Ludwig, interrupting his every word, as the bag struggled against him, perhaps to be freed.

  
  


Ludwig rolled his eyes as Sofia and Alice watched in silent curiosity.

“Scheisse- You damn Greek, stop struggling already!” A warning was all Ludwig could muster.

The bag refused to stop, Ludwig’s warning had fallen on deaf ears. Like lightning, swift and powerful, a knife struck the bag from the inside, reducing it to a deflating, sad mass of black leather, and revealing its contents.

Miroslav held back a gasp, his mouth opening without him realizing. Sofia jumped back with a shriek, before realizing what had fallen to her floor.

A young man slipped from inside the bag, a hooked knife clutched in his left hand, a confident grin written on his face.

“Told you I’m going to get ya,” He chuckled, rising to his feet, with the knife pointed at Ludwig. “This knife, she’s never failed me once!”  
  
  


Heracles could feel himself perk up at the man’s voice. He had a strange, thick accent, and even stranger vocabulary. But these qualities seemed oddly familiar to him, a person near him….

Heracles crept closer to the door.

Ludwig gritted his teeth, hands trembling, the desire to pull out his handgun and shoot the audacious nation point blank overtaking his mind.

“Crete,” He spoke slowly in English, a thick accent adding a sudden darkness to his previous rather calm tone. “You’re too noisy. And too rebellious.”  
  


“I don’t fall to Teutons,” Replied Crete, waving his knife around as if it were a harmless toy. He did not hesitate to reply boldly to Ludwig, a country that most, if not everyone, feared. “Especially cowardly ones like you. You disgust me.”  
  


With that, he spat on the ground, eliciting a gasp and a disgusted grunt from Sofia.  
  


“We just got this hall cleaned up!” She hissed, her hands balling in tight fists, her eyebrows furrowing together.  
  


“Don’t worry, I’ll clean it up alongside your teeth when you have to pick them off the floor! ” The Cretan surely feared no man, nor woman, nor nation. Wild hair whipped like a mane around his shoulders, green eyes full of lust.  
  


The man craved a good battle.

He stood tall as the rest of nations circled him in stunned silence. Crete toyed with the edge of his knife, eyeing them as if he were a giant, and they were the tiniest of dwarves. He smirked at that comparison. It reminded him of a story he quite enjoyed.  
  


“So,” He said, pressing the edge of the blade against his thumb. “I take that none of you have the guts to fight an island?”

He twisted on his heel to face Erzsebet, pointing his blade at her.

“Not even you? I thought you enjoyed a good fight!”

  
“I don’t fight children,” She growled, green eyes boiling like tiny suns. “Especially ones that brag too much.”

  
“I don’t brag, I simply -”

Ludwig’s fist met Crete’s face with so much force, it sent him flying to the nearest wall. Even if Heracles was far away from the point of the impact, he could feel the sharp pain of skull bashed against the concrete wall.  
  
  


Crete stared at the floor. He felt the metallic taste of blood smear across his tongue, without realizing blood started pouring down his nose too. _How hard was he struck?_

  
  


He heard the woman with the ponytail timidly whispering something in her native language, perhaps a wish to stop or a cuss. He didn’t care enough for that.  
He allowed himself to lower his gaze to the ground, feel the blood rush down his face.

Soon a gloved finger pushed up his chin, enough for him to meet the gaze of the one holding him. Frozen blue eyes, blond slicked hair, Ludwig’s eyes held no emotion behind them. A robot, a killing machine controlled by his boss, and nothing else.  
  
  


“Listen mongrel,” He talked with such serenity that Crete felt his hair stand on the edge of his skin. “You should be grateful that I didn’t erase your population from the face of Earth, which is probably what I should have done.”  
  


“You could try every day,” Crete blurted out, confidence flowing in his veins like adrenaline. He loved it. “And I’d kick your ass every day, Teuton.”  
  


“Stop calling me that.”  
  


“Make me.”  
  


“You will be forced to soon either way.” With the last phrase, Ludwig retracted his finger from underneath Crete’s chin, allowing his head to hang slightly.  
  


“I think that’s enough bloodshed for today, wouldn’t you think,” Alice said, her hands resting on her hips. Miroslav could hear the tremble in her voice, the fear she held for the blond man. 

  
  


As for him, he found Crete’s bravery inspiring. Naturally, brothers are brothers no matter the age gap they share. Crete was not too different from Heracles, if he could think about it more clearly.  
  
  


“Come, Luddy.” Alice put her hands against Ludwig’s chest, moving them in a gentle rubbing notion. Perhaps to calm him down, if anything could calm the war machine so easily. “Let’s go to our home now.”  
  


Her smile spread to a slightly more suggestive one. “I know _exactly_ how to calm you down quickly.”  
  


“Perhaps you’re right,” Ludwig sighed out in agreement, fixing his crooked collar of his shirt. “Besides, I believe Sofia wants to deal with her own things.”  
  


“Indeed, I do,” Sofia said, dusting her dress and adjusting its waist. “Besides, you must be tired. Erzsebet and I will deal with this unruly Greek.”

Ludwig and Alice nodded slightly, a silent farewell to the nations. As Alice was crossing the hall to get to the door, her eyes nervously wandered the kitchen hall, Miroslav noticed. As if she were looking for something… 

Or maybe someone.

  
  


Heracles poked his head out of the doorframe, his curiosity getting the best of him. He had resisted the urge to look alongside Miroslav for too long, he could no longer hold himself back.

His green eyes met a pair of likewise eyes, but unlike his own dead, hopeless eyes, these were bustling with a youthful flame of life. Of course, Crete would never give up.

Crete flashed a cocky smirk at the curious duo he was eyeing.

“Eleftherios?” Whispered Heracles, feeling his legs tremble underneath him, his heart swelling with emotions he could not describe.  
  


“What’s up, dickhead.” Eleftherios chuckled, struggling to get to his feet, finding himself relying on the wall for support.  
  
But once he was standing, he rushed to the kitchen’s door frame, seizing Heracles from his place and capturing him in a tight, almost suffocating hug.

  
  
One that made the brothers’ heart flutter. Miroslav felt his heart smile alongside them.  
A sudden emptiness settled on his chest, left with the desire to be embraced as sincerely.

Miroslav felt tears well up in his eyes.

* * *

“How did you end up here, Eleftherios?” Miroslav questioned, his nervous hands toying with the sharpened blade of the aforementioned.

The kitchen was a sanctuary for the captive nations. Almost holy for them, an altar, one they could conceal from Sofia’s view, as she never set foot upon there. Thankfully, neither did Erzsebet.

“Well, I fucked up,” Said the Cretan, feasting on his frosty glass of water offered to him by Heracles, who was listening patiently to his brother speaking, leaned against the wall. “I think I overestimated my powers.”

  
“Or perhaps, underestimated your opponents,” Miroslav mused, his fingers fiddling with the blade still. How many times has he underestimated his opponents? Too many. That’s why he was a captive to begin with. “That’s a fatal mistake.”  
  


“It can cost you all you have,” Spoke Heracles, reaching into his pocket to grab a cigarette. “Just take an example from us.”  
  


Heracles sipped on the cigarette, his teeth biting down on it. _Strange, he never did that unless he was nervous_ . The eyes of the deceased spirit of Heracles bored into Miroslav’s, like flashing a warning. As if this condition of spiritual death was contagious, Miroslav’s eyes dulled, the life extinguished from them as if blowing a candle.  
  


Miroslav froze in his tracks, the blade freezing with him.  
  


“Heracles is absolutely correct,” He sighed, giving the blade back to the Cretan with rather reluctance. “We both were confident in ourselves, perhaps we rushed into things we couldn’t fully understand.”  
  


Eleftherios raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms on his chest as he eyed the nations individually.

“I don’t buy this shit.” He stated, a cold bite escaping with it. “What’s with you guys agreeing like that? Are you in love or some shit?”

Heracles felt his cheeks burn and redden, his apathy fading away to be replaced with a settling feeling of sheer emotion, but he chose the silence as a better option.  
  


Miroslav’s eyes widened, lips pursed, seemingly unable to understand the sentiment. 

“I-I don’t understand?” He replied, feeling his voice tremble with uncertainty. _Why the hell was he stuttering like that?  
  
_

Eleftherios gave them a confident grin.

“You know, like sticking together, silently communicating with your eyes….” His voice trailed off, as he rose from his chair to walk near Heracles, and pinch his cheek slightly, whose cheeks resembled ripe tomatoes by now. “Reacting like this when asked if you guys like each other….”  
  


“Everyone would react like that if you asked them out of the blue!” Miroslav threw his hands up defensively, feeling the heat and boiling blood rise his face.  
  
  


Eleftherios let out a cheeky laugh and left Heracles’ cheek alone. Heracles rubbed it, as if he wished to erase the furious blush from his face.  
  
  
Eleftherios spun on his heel, knocking his pointer finger at a wall, in an attempt to grab Miroslav and Heracles’ attention.  
  


“Either you lovebirds have a crush on each other or not, it doesn’t matter.” His voice lowered, his eyes losing the cheeky gleam to be replaced with a deadpan melody, an urgent spark on the eyes. “It doesn’t matter whether I won or lost, this will affect nothing.” He added, his hands wandering off to the belt where he held his knives, fiddling with them.  
  


“What matters the most is us getting out of here as soon as possible.”  
  


Miroslav and Heracles nodded in agreement, urging Eleftherios to go on.  
  


“Do you have a plan, Eleftherios? You seem oddly confident.” Heracles raised his eyebrow this time, cigarette sticking out of his mouth like a stereotypical mafia boss.

Eleftherios smirked, concealing his hands behind his back.

“I do, I always do.” He said, darkness smearing on his smooth voice.

“Though I have to warn you.” Eleftherios took out a knife, pointing at it with his thumb.  
“It only involves you, Miroslav, and this little knife.” From his throat escaped a laugh which can only be described as a childish giggle.

Heracles felt his confidence falter, his blood turn into ice on his veins.

He should have believed his blood-drenched dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I had quite a lot of fun writing it~  
> Eleftherios is my Crete OC, he's the brother of Heracles and well... you'll see more of him soon.


	5. 04 -- Zavera

_June 20 ,  
_ _Vienna_

* * *

Days in the prison nicknamed as an ‘estate’ were bound to be dull.

Heracles, with eyes glazed from boredom and the desire to see his countrymen burning deep within his chest, had come to a terrible realization the last two weeks, ever since Eleftherios came to the estate.  
  


He was losing his sleep.

He spent seemingly endless nights in his room, watching Miroslav’s sleeping figure like a stern guard, the Bible tightly held in tanned hands, shaking from exhaustion.  
  
Only God himself knows how many nights wasted away like this, Heracles’ eyes pinned on the blank ceiling with the gaze of the dead coloring them. Red and green, and white mixed in his eyes, a sickening blend of colors that made his eyes look ill.  
  
He had been tempted many times to wake Miroslav up, pester him with philosophical questions or tease him about his sleeping habits (very irregular, he grew to know). Perhaps this way he’d be lulled to sleep.  
But seeing the drained Serb crawl into bed, barely able to slur out a goodnight to Heracles before passing out, made him rethink his decisions.

  
Heracles could wait no longer. He had to get out of this place. He just had to, but Eleftherios was firm on his decisions. He had declared that it was too early to escape just yet, and had to wait for the perfect chance, a perfect storm to lose themselves on.  
  
By the ends of June, Heracles felt nothing but ice breaking within his body. Desperation and insomnia was a dangerous combination, and an even more perilous one when on a broken mind, like Heracles’.

**He had to get out of here.**

* * *

Lady Sofia’s fist had grown iron over the last few weeks.

She’d wander the halls of her estate, in her face a state of constant panic was written on her usually calm face.  
Shoulders stiff, hasty and loud steps, violet eyes wide with emptiness dressing them up. Heracles could scream at her eyes and his voice would echo to him.

  
Her attitude, from lax yet strangely responsible, had grown to a young brat’s. Her melodic voice rotted to a shrill, near constant screech to her servants’ ears, as she screamed at them for not washing the plates until they were made of transparent crystal, the food being too hot for her tastes, or leaving an insignificant spot on the floor, as tiny as an ant’s footstep on the sand.  
  
As much as she screeched and complained to the poor nations that were forced to put up with her changed attitude, Heracles and Eleftherios suffered the worst. Obviously, Sofia hated their attitude, and that Eleftherios would lean back on her salmon colored walls of the kitchen and would slowly peel the color off with the edge of his curved blade, a smirk always present on his tanned face.  
  
That, and that he and Heracles had picked up a habit of calling Sofia and her cousins “Dirty Teutons” to her face, eliciting snarky chuckles from Miroslav, amused smiles from Radomir and smirks from the rest of the nations, specifically Francis.  
  
  
The smiles and laughter would die down when Erzsebet stepped in. The Hungarian woman, with the eyes of a barbarian gleaming in an attractive face, would take no shit from anyone. A simple glare from her was enough to silence the masses.  
Except one, Feliks. She would look at the beaten down boy with an almost loving expression on her face, her voice quiet and collected around him. Almost as if she were apologetic for something, begging for absolution, and Feliks was her angel sent to cleanse her from her sins.  
In return, Feliks would gently smile at her, or struggle to put his signature grin on his face. As if he was reassuring her he was okay.  
  
Feliks trusted an _Axis_. And said Axis trusted _him_ , she’d lay down her life for him if he asked her to. 

Heracles scoffed at such sentiments, ignoring if this drew the attention of curious nations surrounding him. He’d always taste bitter poison on his spit afterwards, something he was familiar with.  
After all, he’s always been alone in his battles. Stripped from allies and those he puts trust in, even temporarily.  
  
  
He had been betrayed so many times. Backstabbed. Drowned. Sold.  
 _The smoke and fire in 1922 haunted him to this day.  
He can hear the screams to this day.  
  
_He wondered if the bitter taste in his mouth was just the longing for someone he could trust.

But he’d cast these black thoughts away. Unaware that they’d gather in his soul instead. Despair would spread faster, quieter there. A silent killer.  
But Heracles could no longer afford to care. He didn’t have a penny in his _pocket_ to begin with.

  
He choked the hatred back with a hasty “M’ fine” and would rush to tend to his assignment.  
  
 _Was_ he choking it back?

* * *

  
As Heracles heard, from the not so quiet whispers of the Estate, when he woke up in the morning of June 20, the reason Sofia decided to rule with an iron fist out of the sudden, was because she was planning a feast for the Axis members.

  
Apparently in two days from then, the Axis would abandon Europe to look the beast in the eyes, the beast sleeping to the East. The Soviet Union. As a farewell gift, Sofia planned a feast for those who departed, without telling the nations serving her.  
And there they all were, preparing heaps of food enough to end world hunger thrice, dusting the furniture to the point of looking brand new, and some nations even took to fixing Sofia’s appearance for this night.

Heracles and Miroslav, like robots, swept the halls and mopped the floors to look as bright as the sun itself. Although he did a superb job at hiding it, Miroslav could see the exhaustion swirl in Heracles’ eyes.  
  
His hands trembled. His eyes darkened day by day, like bruises swelling up his eyes.  
His voice grew monotone and uncaring.

  
“You can take a break if you want to,” He whispered to Heracles, stretching his arm to place a hand upon his friend’s shoulder. “Did you not sleep last night?”

  
“Haven’t slept for a week.” Heracles replied, gaze focused on the floor he was mopping, ignoring Miroslav’s dumbfounded gasp next to him.

  
“The _fuck_? How are you still walking?!” Miroslav’s brows furrowed, an almost mother-like worry washing over his face, stealing the color from it. “You should have stayed in bed today.”  
  
“I’m no child. I can take care of myself.” Heracles shot back, far more aggressively than he intended. A quick glance would reveal the Serb’s face, morphing in one of worry and hurt, but Heracles ignored it.  
“ _Don’t make that face, Miroslav_.” His mind egged him on to say it, but the lips wouldn’t move. He felt a burning sensation on his neck and bag — a repercussion of his harsh tone — , guilt stabbing into his stomach.

He couldn’t see Miroslav like that. Miroslav worrying about him would be the last thing he wanted.  
He already had tons of problems piling up on his back, and yet Miroslav would rather worry about Heracles than focus on his own business.  
Selfless, Heracles mentally noted, in what seemed to be an imaginary pros and cons list stuck on his head.   
A tiny smile threatened to break out in the thought.

  
The two continued their labour in crystalline silence, broken only by the occasional sigh or the noise of the mop and broom.

  
  
  
  


Hasty steps belonging to a lean man with curly hair, black like the night, interrupted their work, rather rudely. Eleftherios placed a finger on his chin, a smirk gracing his face, standing back and simply admiring them, doing their job, until his voice descended upon the hall.

  
“Well, well, if it’s not the lovebirds!”

  
Serb and Greek alike froze in their place, their faces gaining the color of a ripe tomato. Miroslav shot a glare at Eleftherios, letting out a displeased scoff and continuing on his work.  
  
Heracles, on the other hand, assumed a much more aggressive position.

  
“What do you _want_ , Eleftherios.” He growled, blush still bright on his face, his hand waving a broom up and down, as if the broom he was holding was the most fearsome weapon in the world. “Are you blind? Can’t you see we’re busy here?”

  
“Better fuck off if you only came to make fun of us.” Miroslav hissed, his usual welcoming gaze sharpened to one of a seasoned warrior. Heracles had seen this gaze before. Never had it ended well for the opposing party. He was just glad to never have been the man Miroslav would face as an enemy.  
  
Yet.

Eleftherios threw up his hands in front of his face, taking a not-so-confident step back. “Relax,” He said, body still stiff. His feet were twitching; asking for a chance to escape the halls. “I just brought news that might get you out of this shitty attitude.” For a person forced in such a position, Eleftherios had a whole rotting sewer for a mouth.

Heracles relaxed his shoulders, lowering his hand, the same disbelieving eyes fixed on Eleftherios’ figure, as if he wanted to decipher every piece of him. Miroslav’s gaze softened, almost reverted to his casual stare, and now they coldly searched for Eleftherios’ soul.  
  
Eleftherios felt chills climb up his back.

Picking on his red sash, bound around his waist, Eleftherios pulled out a small glass vial containing a thick white powder, waving it back and forth, like a dog’s toy. Heracles squinted to take a better look upon the vial. At first, he thought it was flour. But on better inspection, the powder seemed crystalline, as if it was thin ground sugar.  
  


Miroslav’s eyes widened upon the realization.

“Sedatives! Where’d’you get those?” Miroslav took the small vial to inspect it further, life blooming back to his life like a spring flower. He seemed almost thrilled by such a rarity, before giving it back to Eleftherios.

Heracles felt a smile creep up his face with such enthusiasm gleaming in his friend’s eyes. God, his eyes seemed to glow gold when he smiled. Somewhere in his chest… He felt a familiar arrow of fire strike him, its warmth pulsing through his veins, offering another red hue to his face.

  
He didn’t know why… But Heracles wanted to see Miroslav smile more.

His brother’s bold gaze met Heracles’ eyes, forcing him to look straight to Eleftherios’ eyes. Eleftherios smirked at him, pushing his point finger against his lips, eyebrows raised.  
“I can’t tell you where I found them, though I will tell you something else.” He shoved the vial back in his sash and strode towards them.

Eleftherios grabbed Miroslav’s vest and Heracles’ shirt and pulled them with him down the stairs, and again down the stairs… until they reached a dark hall Heracles had never seen before. The smell of the place that assaulted his nose told him the place hadn’t been cleaned for over a year.  
Miroslav’s widened eyes and gritted teeth also told him that wherever Eleftherios just took them, it was not for good.

* * *

  
“Here we have the prison,” Said Eleftherios, completely unaffected by the darkness and the putrid smell of sewers. “The prison Miss Teuton likes to throw her unruly subjects in.” His hands went back and forth as if he were a tourist guide at Athens' most expensive museum.

“Thankfully, no one comes down here unless it’s serious business.”

“Not even Sofia steps here,” Eleftherios assured, with the eyes of a conspirator having replaced his own. “Speak freely.” From his sash he pulled out a huge packet of cigarettes, which he picked one, lit it on fire and took a large, satisfying sip. The butt of the cigarette was the only light the triad had, enough for Heracles to make out his partners’ faces.

  
But it was okay. _Eleftherios’ presence was enough to assure safety_ , Heracles gently reminded himself, casting doubts and black thoughts aside.  
  
  
“So,” Miroslav piped in, sparing a shy glance at the entrance, as if he was afraid anyone would hear them. “What is your plan, Eleftherios?”  
  
“Easy,” Eleftherios replied, without lifting his eyes from his cigarette. “Just drug the bitch tonight, in her feast. The rest of the Axis squad will be too busy trying to wake her up, and you two will make a simple escape through the window.”

"You think it’s that fucking easy?” Miroslav replied, surprise coloring his voice and his face. But underneath the blanket of darkness, it was hard to see even the color of your hand. “If it was that easy, we’d have done that a long time ago.”

  
“Also,” Heracles spared the entrance another glance, before shooting a glare at the Cretan with the cigarette. “ ‘ _You two_ ’? What does that mean?”  
  
“It means only you and Miroslav will escape the estate.” Eleftherios replied, with such serenity in his voice that Heracles’ gaze immediately softened. The Cretan drew a sip from the cigarette, combined with a sigh, and continued.  
“I cannot leave the Estate. If too many people escape at once, we’ll be suspicious.”

  
“Because now they aren’t.” Miroslav rolled his eyes, but the softened gaze immediately hardened as if they said nothing. “I don’t know what the hell you’re trying to do here, but we need to leave, and now. Find a better plan or we’re done for.”

  
“It’s not possible to do anything else in such a short time, and besides, more elaborate schemes would draw more attention to us.” Eleftherios drew another sip of the cigarette and looked away, as if he didn’t want to meet Miroslav’s gaze. “The only plausible scenario is distract the Axis guys with that while you throw yourselves off the window.”

  
“ **Bullshit**!” Miroslav burst out, an unusual aggression flaring in his voice. Heracles’ heart leaped out of his chest in such a change of voice volume. Thousands of scenarios passed by his head, — what if someone hears them? —  
  
  
“Just say you’re too scared or you simply don’t fucking want to help us escape,” Miroslav growled. “I’d respect honesty, but now you’re just fucking lying to us.”  
  
“I’m not, but whatever floats your boat, Miro.”  
  
“You were singing a different tune just yesterday!”

“I thought of it rationally through the night.”

“I’m sure you did! Sure you thought it rationally, or you just changed your mind after sucking Ludwig’s dick all night!”

  
“Miroslav.” Heracles’ voice hissed in the darkness like a snake slithering in the darkness, a warning to predators and prey alike. “Speak like that to my brother again, and I will end you.” Darkness flowed in his eyes, and for one second, Eleftherios swore he saw his brother’s eyes morph into a tiger’s, before turning human again.  
  
Miroslav lost his bravado, irises expanded and staring directly at Heracles’ eyes, trembling hands hidden behind his back. “Sorry, sorry,” He stammered, an unexplainable fire burning in the back of his neck. “I got a bit carried away…”  
  
“We _don’t_ need that right now,” Heracles said, leaning against a wall and closing his eyes, as if his innate desire for sleep called out to him once more. “What we need is to take any chance that pops out. Even if it’s a cliche, if it gets us out of here, then I don’t really mind."  
  
  
With the blanket of darkness that was already hovering over the triad, came a tense silence. The only sounds that could be heard were Eleftherios’ sips from his cigarettes. He clicked his heel against the floor, capturing the attention of all those present.  
  
“So, we agree on tonight’s plan?”

Miroslav within the moments of silence tried to figure out an alternative plan to possibly slip Eleftherios out as well. But within his head, he saw nothing but thick darkness. There was no choice. No alternative ways. They had to do it Eleftherios’ way.

  
“It seems there’s no other choice.” Miroslav admitted, his head hanging low, shoving his hands in his pockets.

  
  
Heracles looked at his brother and slowly nodded, his lips pulled in a small frown, his eyes gleaming of a slow resignation. No objections to the plan, although a small part of himself wished Eleftherios joined them. He was his brother, for God's sake.

  
Eleftherios grinned, throwing his lit cigarette on the floor and stomping on it.  
“Excellent, lovebirds. Now let’s get out of here. This place gives me the fucking creeps.”

* * *

The last thing Heracles could recall was the panic that seized his brain that night. That panic that pumped his veins full of adrenaline and a desire for escape he could not shake away.  
  
He ran like a maniac on the streets of Vienna, the heaving and cursing Miroslav pressed against his chest in a princess carry, ignoring the sharp pain stabbing at his ankle with every step.  
  
 _Nothing mattered_. The adrenaline had faded, but Heracles’ legs carried him like the wind, like the messenger of Marathon running to Athens to announce the Athenians’ victory. The Estate had long faded from view, to be replaced with the alleyways of Vienna, concealed by the night and protected by sturdy buildings.  
  
There, they could hide. They could catch their breaths.

  
Heracles put Miroslav down on the floor of the alleyway, and he soon followed. Simultaneously, they leaned against the wall, sucking in a deep breath. The moonlight gleaming on their faces raw, the summer night chill brushing their skin, the chaos surrounding them, comprising trash and stray pieces of metal…

It all reminded them of a new reality. They had escaped the prison.  
  
 _**They were free.** _

Miroslav slammed his fist against the wall he was leaning to, golden eyes burning with a flame Heracles had only seen once in his lifetime before.

  
“Damn you, Heracles! How stupid can you fucking be?”  
  
  
Heracles’ eyes widened on Miroslav’s words. His poisonous wit begged him to return the fire, but something in his mind commanded him to stay in silence. And so he obeyed.  
  
  
“How could you be so reckless!” Miroslav cried, his voice cracking with the pain of a million lifetimes. “Why didn’t you grab on the rope Eleftherios gave you…”  
  
“I didn’t have enough time to react-”  
  
“Bullshit! Look at your ankle now! You fucking shattered it!”

  
In his daze, Heracles hadn’t noticed the fiery trails of tears searing through Miroslav’s skin. Tears of worry. His eyes focused on Heracles’ ankle, bent in an awkward angle, the force of Heracles landing on his feet was too much for his body to handle.  
  
Heracles felt his eyes water. Wordlessly he pulled Miroslav in a tight embrace who instantly rested his head on his shoulder and continued to sniffle quietly, as if he was ashamed of his own emotions. 

Heracles’ heartbeat hastened as a tear escaped the springs he called eyes.  
In a moment like this, and he was worrying about him. The _warlord_ , the famed warrior of the South, and he was crumbling with worry for him.  
  
  
And it struck Heracles, like a god-sent thunderbolt landed in front of him. Everything that happened a few moments ago was insane, so insane Heracles originally thought it was a vivid dream, a fantasy gone off the rails.

_"Eleftherios drugging Sofia’s drink._

_Being caught like a thief in the night by Dimitar, who stepped on the kitchen at that moment._

_Eleftherios chased all the way to the depths of the house, his voice drowned out by the darkness reigning over the rest of the mansion._

_It called out to the two partners, steeling themselves for their great escape, from the window in the great hall._

_Dimitar following behind Eleftherios like a wolf stalking his prey. And at last, he cornered all three mice in front of the window. A sadistic grin spread across his face._

_He pulls out a revolver._

_He mutters something in Bulgarian._

_The revolver loads, Dimitar aims._

  
  
  


_Dimitar cries out in the blackness, dropping his revolver. He crumbles to the ground, grasping his side, leaking warm red liquid like a river._

_Eleftherios’ blood stained blade gleaming in the darkness, his voice clear as crystal to Heracles’ ears._

_“Go! Now!”_

_Thoughtlessly, Heracles lifted Miroslav and leapt out of the window, uncaring of the heights that are to befall him. Moments before his jump, he could have sworn he saw the ghost of a rope thrown at his direction, as if he was to catch it._

_But Heracles couldn’t care about it now. The air of freedom got him high, even when descending to his certain death…. Miroslav’s screams in his native language linger on his ears."_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


But it doesn’t matter. Not anymore. As Miroslav’s sniffles quiet down to choked gasps, Heracles’ arms still wrapped around him, Heracles lets his pride win over him for once.  
With his eyes raised towards the skies, hoping to see a glance of the heavens, or even God’s gaze staring down at him, he lets out a war cry, a praise to all divine beings and all willpower. And a prayer for those who he left behind.

“God freed us, Serbia!”

"God is with us, Servia!"

“We are free, Miroslav!”

He descends his gaze from the heavens to Earth to stare at golden eyes, dulled by tears, but the wide smile in his face tells him the tears this time are shed for a different reason.  
These golden eyes, like magnets, drew him in more. From Heavens he shall return to Earth.


	6. 05-- Αδερφε Μου

_ June 21, _

_ Somewhere in Europe,  _

* * *

The morning haze blurred Heracles’ mind and memories alike. The adrenaline fading from his blood had him crumbled against the wall, clutching his shattered ankle close to his body, a desperate attempt to keep the wildfire of pain from spreading further.  
So absorbed he was in his pain that he barely remembered the euphoria of freedom, the almost alluring scent of clean air (as clean as the Viennese air can be), and the bewitching warmth of another body on him. Miroslav was so exhausted by last night’s events that he simply collapsed in a deep, seemingly endless sleep, embraced by Heracles’ muscular arms.

  
Heracles felt a smile creep up his face on such a memory, the pain soften for a minute as he allowed himself to be absorbed in the memory. Miroslav’s warmth, his arms tightly wrapped around Heracles’ waist, his blissful expression as he indulged on a good night’s sleep… It made his heart fasten a bit, long for the time he will get to do that again--  
  
Heracles winced. He didn’t need these feelings right now. His plate was already brimming with a thousand more problems higher in importance than that: The fear of the Axis powers chasing them across the globe, how he’d get back to Greece, how could he be able to assist his warriors should he arrive safely, how he’d be able to fight back against Ludwig and his maniac of a brother, Eleftherios, his currently broken bones….  
Boy trouble could be the least of his problems for now.

  
  
Especially for a man like Miroslav. He meant no insult to his closest friend, but he never once felt him closer than a best friend. Even during the time where the Serb seized him by his waist and kissed him, back in 1913, with Dimitar the traitor’s defeat, Heracles always attributed it to misplaced impulse.

Or at least, that’s what Miroslav agreed on.  
But he had to admit, sometimes, in the dark, warm nights of Greek summers, Heracles yearned for a similar feeling on his lips, preferably by the same man…  
  
  
Heracles blinked repeatedly, attempting to shake off that yearning off his head. He was getting distracted, and to be distracted as a runaway is to seal your own fate. One wrong movement, one wrong call or one wrong judgement, and he’d be handcuffed, beaten and thrown in the murky dungeons that he saw the last time he was in the Estate.  
If such a thing were to happen, he doubted Miroslav would assist him. He’d have his own issues, his army to help and a war to fight. Putting it all aside to save a singular personification would be a waste of time, resources, and perhaps men.

  
Heracles struggled to get up, leaning against the sturdy wall as he fought to align his injured foot with his healthy one, eliciting waves of agonizing pain to swim through his body, drawing grunts and gasps out of him.  
  
He cursed his luck and impulse for jumping off the window with no consideration of his actions. He had convinced himself that he was much smarter than that, jumping off and acting without thinking beforehand, but the situation was tighter than the noose on an executed man. There was no choice.  
How the blazes was he supposed to run now? Although a nation, Heracles did not know of the healing process on nations’ bodies.  
  
All he knew was that they were immortal, as long as the country they represented existed. He had tested that theory either way. Twice, even. He remembers these times as if they were yesterday. 

  
As he sank on his thoughts, a honk tore the morning silence, and dragged him out of the murk. Loud and clear, as if it came from right next to him. Heracles dragged himself away from the wall to peek to the road behind him, attempting to find the source of the noise.  
And God, if he hadn’t. 

  
A white van stood on the road, still as Lot’s wife and cleaner than the sky. Like it was brand new. Inside it, against the driving wheel, leaned no other but Miroslav, clad in a classy black jacket that drew Heracles’ eyes in and black gloves covering his scarred, tattooed hands. Where he even got these tattoos, Heracles would never know.  
On his lips rested a cigarette, captured between his canines in an almost challenging smirk. 

  
  
Miroslav looked as if no day had passed since the end of the Balkan Wars, where he came out as the winner after 2 years of nonstop fighting. Heracles felt shivers climb his spine with such a memory. Miroslav was the very definition of a warrior, stubborn, aggressive and determined to the very core. The Balkan Wars brought out these qualities in their highest, elevating him from a noble, somewhat hot-tempered officer in his kingdom to a ruthless warrior of God.He would honor and kiss every scar he received on his body. He claimed these were proof of his devotion to his land and people. The man just lived for battle.  
  
Miroslav dragged himself near the van’s window, rolling it down and throwing away his half-finished cigarette.   
  


“Are you done having a conversation with the fucking car door?” He shouted, typical sarcasm and profanity layering his voice. “Because we’re kinda tight on time, Herk.”  
  
Heracles rolled his eyes at the remark and let out an annoyed grunt at the sound of the nickname. He had earned the nickname from the first time they formally met, Heracles couldn’t even remember how long it was ago.  
He took a deep breath, ignoring the jolts and protests of the broken foot, and dragged himself near.

“You needn’t shout,” He hissed as he approached the van. “You’re dragging more attention onto us.”  
  
“From who, Herk?” Miroslav smirked, returning to the driver’s seat as he searched his jacket’s pockets. “You know, I was more surprised that you said nothing about the van.”

“I figured. You stole it.”

Miroslav shrugged, hands still frisking his jacket. “And? I better don’t see you complaining about this. You, especially, should be grateful for the van.”

Heracles raised a bushy eyebrow as he plopped down to the passenger’s seat and sank deep within it. “How come?” He sighed out, as he stretched out his foot, who thanked him for finally resting.  
  
Miroslav blinked, a void expression dressing his face. “Are you serious? I’m not letting you walk like that. You are literally handicapped without your legs and guess what asshat. You need both of them to be efficient.”

“Touche. Since when do you care for my physical health, Miroslav?”

  
“Bozhe, I refuse to have this conversation with you. You’re literally insufferable sometimes.”

  
“Why?” Heracles threw his hands up, as if to protect himself from an incoming strike. “Just because I asked a question?”

  
“Your question was fucking stupid, and I refuse to answer to stupid questions.” Miroslav growled, and with that, with a slick movement, the van roared to life and lurched forward in almost dizzying speed. Miroslav kept his eyes on the road, refusing to meet Heracles’, but Heracles could see the fire burn in his ally’s eyes.

He didn’t know exactly why, but he felt the ice melt within him after noticing the fire in Miroslav’s eyes. As if they brought him hope, a momentary light upon the endless abyss of darkness that was called war.  He sank in his seat in silence, his eyes pinned to the window, watching the Viennese buildings all replace each other within seconds. 

  
Then the light of memories shook fear deep within him. Miroslav was an _atrocious_ driver. Impulsive, inattentive and selfish on the roads. Fuck, if the Axis didn’t kill him, Miroslav’s driving will send him head-first on a personal meet-and-greet with God himself.  
Heracles bit his lip to hide the disappointed grunts that threatened to escape his throat.

This was a goddamn mistake.

* * *

The days passed in a blur of speed and Miroslav’s cigarette smoke. After a while of endless running on the road, with the occasional stop to buy food in small villages.

Over these boring, grey days, Heracles’ foot had healed significantly. Albeit it still hurt when applied pressure to, he could now walk without being in hell-sent pain.  He had also recovered a copy of the Bible from a small town’s priest one time. He couldn’t recall the town’s name, let alone where they were at the moment. Miroslav and he were just on the run, hoping to be heading towards the Southeastern peninsula, but as they left with no maps, not even a compass with them, they could even be in Germany at the moment, or circling Vienna repeatedly.

Heracles’ eyes were pinned to the Bible’s pages, turning them carefully and gently, as if they were made from crystals, distracting him from the mists of the outside world. Miroslav loved to drive fast and in silence, his eyes glued to the road.  
  
Heracles smirked. He was surprisingly careful this time. Perhaps he realized their lives were on the stake now. Not only theirs, but their entire nation’s, too. A slip of the tongue, a smile at the wrong person, stepping foot on the wrong land, could land them in the Germans’ witch hunt for good.

  
The silence was deafening. As much as Heracles enjoyed the quiet times, as they allowed him to immerse himself in the sea of philosophical questions and thoughts, something that always relaxed him. Heracles could no longer tolerate Miroslav’s silence. He was used to his sarcasm, his foul language, the snarky jokes that brought a smile in his face. Miroslav was oddly quiet these last days. Perhaps he, too, was picking fights with demons of his own evil spirits that blackened his thoughts and kept his lips sealed. Perhaps he, too, needed a distraction. Maybe Heracles’ voice could be the light that would temporarily smite the demons aside.

Heracles looked outside the window. In complete foreign grounds he found himself in grounds covered in trees and stones, not a sign informing them of their current location to be seen. Fear grabs his body momentarily, a lingering fear. What if they’re lost for good?  Stranded in some unknown corner of the endless world, with no supplies, and with their only navigator, a dense forest ahead of them. The road is ending.  Heracles sucks in a breath, his worry only growing bigger with Miroslav’s apathy and complete lack of response to the incoming threat.

  
He put the Bible aside. He’d break the icy silence. He’d pick at Miroslav’s soul until he was clean.

  
  


“Miroslav?”

  
“Da?” Came the Serb’s answer, golden eyes still glued on the road.

  
“Where the hell are we?”

Miroslav’s eyes widened as he froze solid, his grip on the wheel becoming so strong it turned his knuckles to the white of the dead.  **_Lord_**. They _truly_ were blind. It seemed as if Miroslav just noticed the dead end and the dark forest in front of them, growing increasingly bigger as the vehicle approached them at maddening speed.

Miroslav cleared his throat, insecurity playing in his throat.  “I-I… uh… suppose….” He trailed off, his fingers tapping nervously on the wheel, as if they were a drum of war. “I mean- Judging by the landscape, I suppose we must near Croatia.”

  
“You don’t seem confident of that.”

“Of course I’m not! We have no map, we’re running on instinct at the moment.” Miroslav breathed, his voice trembling like a lost child’s.  
“I just... hope- hope we will not face an ambush.”  
His face darkened with uncertainty, hands shaking, eyes dull.

  
Fuck. Heracles had opened the box of fears in Miroslav’s soul, Pandora’s box itself. Like himself, Miroslav was a boiling cauldron, overflowing with hidden emotions and anger, a disaster ready to take place.  He had to change the subject quickly, distract his friend with something. 

“Do you regret leaving Radomir behind?”

  
Miroslav blinked at the question, golden eyes sharply turning to stare at Heracles’, full of curiosity and inquiry. A refreshing sight compared to his eyes beforehand, seized and crushed by fear, the Holy Flame snuffed out by Fear. 

“Mmm no,” He replied, scratching his chin as if he was deep in thought. “I trust Radomir. He’s a valiant warrior who can defend himself easily. He’ll be alright on his own, so I hope at least.”

  
Miroslav’s eyes searched for Heracles’ own, prompting Heracles to look back at him. An odd, comforting warmth climbed up Heracles’ chest upon meeting his eyes. He was not staring at the soulless eyes of Dimitar, not the psychotic red eyes of his captor, nor the glazed violet eyes of his “master”, the Little Teuton Princess, as Eleftherios eloquently referred to her as.  
  
_No_. He was staring at eyes of royal honey; The warm brown eyes that turned into gold upon the gentle touch of the sunlight, like Midas’ touch. The warm brown eyes that always stared at him boldly, that belonged to a man who always stood by him. Who never abandoned him.

“Why do you ask, Heracles?” Miroslav’s voice filled in the void, ripping Heracles’ mental notes on Miroslav’s eyes. “Why do you care about Radomir out of the blue?”

  
“No reason.” Heracles replied, perhaps a little too quickly to be convincing. “Just figured you’d be worried.”

  
“I am, I just believe he’ll be able to handle things on his own. Do you worry about Eleftherios?”  
  
Heracles felt the back of his neck burn, the hairs through all his body stand on the edge of his skin. God, why did he have to bring him up now? Of all people, why? He was struggling so much to forget Eleftherios’ last words. His expression stayed frozen in his visions of him in the darkest nights, slowly fading from view as Heracles leaped off the window.  
He breathed out.

“Yes. A lot. So much. I fear for his fate. What could have happened to him after we jumped off the window?”

  
“My best bet, he’s trapped in the dungeons he showed us that day.” Came Miroslav’s brutally honest answer, digging in Heracles’ mind like the sharpened blade of a spear digging in a man’s flesh, piercing through steel and leather and straight to his heart. “But I’m convinced he’s still alive.”

  
Heracles rested his head against the window, lifeless eyes watching the surrounding scenery change like it was the most mundane thing in the world.  Eleftherios would be thrilled for such an experience. He always was the adventurous, the restless person, the one unable to sit still, motionless against the forces of the world.  Fresh memory surfaces on Heracles’ mind.

  
  
  


_ Eleftherios, young and innocent, swinging a tiny dagger against a tree’s trunk, leaving an impressive, abyssal scar on the bark. His skill with the blade was apparent even as a six-year-old. _

_ Heracles, clad in his royal garbs, claps his hands on the sight of such a feat. _

_ Eleftherios runs up to him, asking for a hug, and immediately receiving it. _

_ His brother’s words resonate deep within Heracles to this day. _

_ “I’ll use this dagger to protect you and our lands, Heracles!” _

  
  
  
  


A single tear threatened to spill from Heracles’ eyes. The memory of Eleftherios’ dagger piercing through the darkness, into Dimitar’s uniform, bringing forth a rich spring of blood, replays in his head repeatedly.  
  
“He really _did_ use the knife to protect our lands.” He tells himself, allowing the tear to run down his cheeks. He wiped it as quickly as it rolled down, not wanting to allow Miroslav to look upon him like that.

He’d do anything to take Eleftherios with him. Anything.  The vehicle sank in silence again.  
Not for long.

* * *

The vehicle stopped its lunatic motion. Ahead of it laid a forest thicker than everything that could hope to be as dense.  Perhaps thicker than human stupidity, remarked Heracles with the most bitter tone in his head. He refused to share such thoughts with Miroslav, however.  He reserved something different for him, either way.

  
“Why did you stop the van?” Heracles questioned, eyes pinned at the forest, as if he was trying to measure how thick it is.

  
“Well, I’m thinking of what to do,” Miroslav said, his hands letting go of the wheel and resting on his thighs, as if they were too tired to continue their circular motion. “Whether we should enter the forest with the van or on foot.”

  
“Where are we either way?”

  
“I’ve been here before. We must be near my territory, like I said before.”

  
Heracles raised a suspicious eyebrow at that. “What territory. Serbia? You said we were near Croatia before.”

  
“I meant Yugoslavia, dumbass,” Miroslav mumbled, glaring at him. His gaze softened, as if he wanted to apologize immediately. He offered a crooked smile as a peace offering and continued. “I’ve made my decision, though. And no one’s talking me out of it.”

  
“Which may be?”

  
Miroslav poked his tongue out at Heracles’ dumbfounded face, like a preteen insulting his peers, and placed his foot on the gas. “We’re charging in with our battle vehicle! Get ready!”

  
As if Miroslav’s voice was an angel’s, as if it was divine intervention, a flame burnt away all of Heracles’ fears and doubts in an instant. The warrior inside him, dulled by despair, suffering and inertia, found new life in the flame.   
_Rejuvenated_! That was how it felt to be human! That’s how it felt to be mortal! That’s how it felt to kindle passions long forgotten! The fire inside him had melted its icy cage long ago, it just needed a spark for it to spread.  
And God, if he wasn’t preparing for it. If he weren’t prepared to fight for the Motherland. He had wanted this so much. Craved it. Begged for it.  
The words of his loyal mountain warriors, a century ago, resounded within the silence in his mind.

_“Freedom, or death!”  
_And Heracles wasn’t feeling like dying. Not any time soon, and definitively not to some Northern invaders.

  
  


Heracles cracked his knuckles as if he was preparing to fist fight. 

  
  
“Just hope we don’t fall in an ambush here,” Miroslav’s voice was cautious, but not wary, perhaps the voice of a conspirator’s. “I heard Ustase members like to hang out in forests like these.”

With that, he slammed his foot on the gas, sending the van back in its frenzied speed through the forest.

* * *

  
  


Deep within the night, and in the black fog of the foreign forests, time seems to crawl. The most innocuous sounds seem to spring from the depths of hell itself. A thousand eyes watching every single of your movements, preying on the perfect opportunity to snatch what it desires from you.  
  
Even under the protection of a vessel, like a van, a lingering sense of doom hangs over one’s neck like a noose. Heracles and Miroslav were no exception to this rule. Struggling to see through thick foliage of trees and the forest’s armor, comprising equally thick bushes on the ground, and with no moonlight to guide their souls, the nations clung to their only source of light, two weakened car lights who barely illuminated the path before them.

“We’re lost for good, aren’t we.” Heracles mused, feeling his body beg him for much needed rest.

  
“I suppose we are,” Miroslav answered, the need for sleep clouding his voice and vision, as well. “We could just stop here and sleep.”

  
“Are you _crazy_? What if there’s someone waiting for us!”

  
“Rebels usually make their presence known through the area upon spotting an enemy. Why would these be any different?” Miroslav yawned, letting the wheel go momentarily. “We haven’t seen a person once since we entered the forest, it’s perfectly safe to--”  
  
A gunshot rang throughout the air, tore the peaceful veil of the forest and turned it into a battlefield. The gunshot interrupted Miroslav’s speech, immediately draining the blood from his face.  
  
Heracles froze in place. Not just him- everything seemed to freeze around him. The car, his Bible, Miroslav, the forest, time itself. His mind was wiped blank, he could think of no logical explanation for the noise.  
A rebel was coming. Perhaps not just one, hordes of rebels who mistook them for German soldiers, within the haze of night and daze of fear. 

  
“Get down!” Miroslav's voice blasted in his ears. “More is to come!”  
  
Muscular hands wrapped around his mouth, sentencing him to a punishment of silence, and dragged him on the floor of the van, lying him down, hands still cupped over Heracles’ mouth.

Miroslav laid on top of Heracles, biting his lip with enough force for Heracles to see blood dripping off it. And Miroslav was like a prophet, as if he had seen it in visions that God himself sent.  
Gunshots rang, aimed against their car, one after another, in a symphony of the glass windows breaking, leather seats tearing apart, steel denting by the force of the bullets. And louder was the cacophony of the gunmen’s language: Although Heracles couldn’t recognize it, he was convinced these were wishes for them to die.  
  
He couldn’t believe it. Just one moment ago, he was prepared to give his life for the Land of Light. Perhaps he had grown used to the eerie tranquility of the Estate, softened him up, to the point of trembling like a little girl on the sound of a gun being fired.  
He noticed Miroslav’s arms were trembling, as well. Perhaps he was as scared as he was. Knowing him, the Serb was equally terrified.

Miroslav’s mouth was still clamped around Heracles’ mouth, preventing him from screaming, like Heracles wanted to. When the melody ended, the voices grew even louder. The voices sounded confused, curious. Footsteps grew louder next to them, the sounds of fingers rubbing against steel and shattered glass growing deafening.  
  
Miroslav freed Heracles from his grip, allowing him to whisper a prayer.  
“What language are they speaking, Miroslav?” He whispered after finishing his prayer, hands tightly wrapped around the Bible.

Miroslav peeked outside from the shattered glass, hoping to gain better access to the faces of the attackers.  “It’s Serbo-Croatian, I know it. I can’t tell whether it's Serbian, Croatian or Bosnian.”

  
“What’s the difference?!” Heracles couldn’t help but allow his impatience to take over his voice, raising it more than he intended, eliciting a harsh shushing from Miroslav.  
  
“The difference is fucking crucial. If only I could see their uniforms!”

  
  
A young man’s face popped on the broken window, his eyes staring directly at the laid figures of Miroslav and Heracles. His eyes widened with fear, like a deer in headlights, as he screeched for reinforcements.

“Gospodine! U kombiju su dva muškarca!”

  
“Šta?! Bolje ti je da ne bude šalim, Ivanović!”

  
“Ne, gospodine! Dva čoveka! Ne znam da li su Nemci ili nisu!”

  
“Banović, Kačar! Izvucite ih iz vozila, i požuri guzice gore! Nemamo vremena!”

Heracles felt his heart stop. The language felt so familiar after Miroslav explained himself, but he still continued to not understand a word. The words were aggressive, and Heracles could tell nothing good was going to come out of it. Miroslav had frozen, his skin felt frozen to the touch. He probably had understood every part of the conversation.  
If the _Warlord of the South_ froze in fear, then Heracles had no chance to stand up to them.  
  
  
Loud footsteps hastened to the spot of the car, opening both of the front doors to reveal a single soldier in each. One was tall and lean, with short black hair framing his face, concealed by the shadows of the forest, and a tall side cap on his head. The other was equally tall, with a long braid on his head, his face also concealed within darkness, the same side cap on his head. The soldiers bent over, each grabbing Heracles and Miroslav from the hair and dragging them out of the van.

Heracles struggled against the grip of the soldier who seized him, the one with the short hair, the pain was excruciating, but didn’t stop Heracles from throwing punches against the air, before being thrown in the cold forest ground, and rolled around until he was lying on his back.

  
Miroslav did not resist. Although he still hissed in pain by the braided man’s iron grip over his hair, he remained passive, calm, even when laid at the ground next to Heracles. An almost confident smirk was written on his face, prompting Heracles’ curiosity.

“What are you smirking about? We’re literally captives now!”

Miroslav gestured towards the cap the soldiers were wearing, and turned to face his ally, a warm smile now having replaced the smirk. “It’s going to be okay. Did you see their hat?”

“Yeah, and?” Heracles shrugged, feeling a hundred pairs of eyes follow him like a wolf stalking his prey.

“It’ll be alright. They’re Yugoslav partisans. They’re Serbs. They’re my countrymen.”

Before Heracles could reply, a large, bulky man, with eyes so sharp they reminded him of daggers and tangled beard, approached them, the soldiers parting in half like Moses and the Red Sea. He was carrying a rifle taller than any of the men present, which he pointed at ease at Miroslav’s chest.

“What do we have here?” He said, a voice so deep it sent shivers down Heracles’ little remaining bravery. “Two German bitches? Driving through the night in such a deep forest? You’re just begging for it.”  
  
“It’s all a misunderstanding,” Miroslav chuckled, flicking at the rifle’s head as if it was a child’s toy. “We’re fugitives, not Germans. We fought these demons, we did not side with them.”  
  
“Besides, German boys are very much _not_ my type.” He continued, a confident smirk spreading in Miroslav’s face, sending Heracles deeper in the sea of confusion.

  
“You expect me to believe you?” The man’s voice rose dangerously, as if he was giving a silent command for a quick execution. His gaze softened, as if heavenly thunder, perhaps remembrance, struck him.  
Memories were the deadliest silent killers.  
  
“Hold on,” He growled in a low voice, dragging the rifle away and onto his shoulder. “I think I know you.” His voice rose, his face lit up, with every piece of realization weaved in his human mind. “Of course I do! God, I could recognize that snark and that fucking voice-”  
  
He turned to Heracles, “And of course, how could I forget you! The curl on your hair, the fighting spirit even when vastly outnumbered….”

The soldiers gathered around the captive nations, eyes pinned on Miroslav, their faces lighting up like a child meeting their childhood hero.  The man, Heracles assumed he was the leader of the group, spun at his heel, knocking his heel at the ground. With a swift move of his hand, he prompted Miroslav to get up, which he obeyed to.

  
  
“Come, Heracles. Get up.” Miroslav’s face had a joyous grin Heracles hadn’t seen in years. In fact, he hadn’t seen it since the end of the Great War. A smile so genuine, it brought a swarm of butterflies in Heracles’ stomach. He replied to the Serb’s invitation to get up eagerly, his eyes pinned to his smile.

The man pointed his rifle at Miroslav, cleared his throat and let out a cry that elicited a sudden, simultaneous rustling on the bushes, scrambling of military boots, whispers of many hidden Serbs within the area.  Heracles didn’t know these people. He couldn’t see all of them. But the few people he saw that rushed out of their hiding places, the many pairs of eyes who peeked, and the whispers carried by the breeze, all had one thing in common.  
He could see the fire, the passion for their homeland. And it fueled the pride and respect Heracles held for Miroslav. His people were so dedicated, so devoted to him.

“Men and women of the Fatherland! Witness, as God has given us two signs of His support for us!” All eyes were on them. The rifle was still pointing at Miroslav.

  
“This is Miroslav Nikolic, personified representative of the Fatherland, and head of our Kingdom, Yugoslavia! The Nazis captured him while heroically defending our city, Belgrade, from the Northern invaders. They held him prisoner as a reminder to our brave people to submit to their will. But alas, by God’s will, and our unwavering faith in our power, he is free! Our nation dines with us tonight!”  
  


The rifle pointed at Heracles, eliciting a confused grunt from him, as the man kept on his speech.

  
“May I also introduce you to Heracles Karpusi, the representative of our brothers, the Greeks! He, too, fought on the snow-capped peaks of Albania, bravely defending his land from the invaders. He too was captured, held prisoner by the Nazis, as a symbol of their feeble attempt at keeping the Greek spirit enslaved. But you see, our brothers aren’t a nation of cowards.”  
  
Heracles felt a smile creep up his face with such words. His heart beat faster with every word uttered.

The man lowered his rifle, taking a deep breath and turning around to stare at the nations. “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight is a night of celebration. These brave men risked their lives to be with us, to be with their nations.” He broke into a salute, throwing his rifle to the ground. “We will lay our lives for you, Miroslav Nikolic. And all you call friends! Your word is our command!”

  
The soldiers broke in salutes, throwing their weapons and standing tall, surrounding them in even circles.   
Heracles spared a glance to Miroslav, his scarred face wet with tears of pride. He could see the trembling lips that struggled to hide the joy bursting within his chest.

“Slava Srbiji! Živela Grčka!” The commander yelled, tearing the heavens with his voice.

  
“SLAVA SRBIJI! ŽIVELA GRČKA!” Repeated the soldiers.

And as Heracles stood in the woods, frozen still, as the soldiers repeated for his nation to prosper as well, nothing could stop his tears from flowing.  
Miroslav wrapped his hands around him, resting his chin against Heracles’ shoulder. Warmer than any summer Heracles had felt against his skin. Maddening.

  
“Živela Grčka, brate moj.” He whispered in his ear as he pressed him tighter against his body. “Hvala ti, Grčka.”

Heracles felt his soul relax, for the first time in what seemed forever. Nothing mattered in the world. Nothing but Miroslav embracing him, thanking him. A rare smile broke through Heracles’ smile as he returned the embrace, under the scarce moonlight breaking through the forest.  
  
“Doxa stin Servia,” He whispered, resting his chin on Miroslav’s chest, hoping he’d hear him. “Aderfe mou, na eisai _kala_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slava Srbiji / Doxa stin Servia = Glory to Serbia  
> Živela Grčka! = Long Live Greece!  
> Aderfe mou, na eisai kala = Be well, my brother  
> Hvala ti, Grčka. = Thank you, Greece


End file.
